


Because You Are All I Long For

by luvxena



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvxena/pseuds/luvxena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane learns that Sansa Stark has been found in the Vale while Littlefinger sends her on the Quiet Isle to get her maidenhead assessed. Get ready for a major SanSan reunion and, of course, much smut ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sandor 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Weil ich mich nur nach dir sehne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/862846) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> Special major thanks to my Beta for this chapter, heliotropa, who did a tremendous job at making this chapter actually readable and made it so much better! Plus she provided me with the inspiration for the title when none was coming <3 
> 
> A few changes have been made from the original LJ post.
> 
> This story is based on the characters of Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark from the hit HBO TV series _Game of Thrones_ but I've also mixed in a lot of elements from the books including _A Clash of Kings_ and _A Storm of Swords_ and the story takes place mainly after _A Feast for Crows_ and during _A Dance with Dragons_. 
> 
> However, the characters’ physical descriptions are based on Rory McCann's portrayal of Sandor Clegane, the Hound, and Sophie Turner's portrayal of Sansa Stark. They are my head canon for this story. But do feel free to see them in their book canon forms if you prefer. I've also aged the character of Sansa to sixteen years of age – closer to the actress' own age since, well, massive age difference. But since we’re talking about a Medieval-type society, this gets a bit more... acceptable (for the time period).

**CHAPTER 1: SANDOR 1**

Sandor Clegane tossed and turned on the uncomfortable straw pallet of his small cell in the cloister of the Quiet Isle.

Fuck him, but he just couldn't bloody sleep again.

It had been well over three months since he'd overheard the freakishly tall woman, Brienne of Tarth, tell the Elder Brother that she was searching for an auburn-haired highborn maid of ten and sixteen. Since then, he'd barely slept at all.

All his thoughts were turned to the little bird.

Sandor knew Sansa Stark had escaped the clutches of that ugly shit of a dwarf she was obviously married to against her will, Tyrion Lannister. But until Brienne of Tarth’s visit, Sandor had tried not to dwell on any of this; he’d tried not to dwell on _her_.

It had been bad enough when he first learned of her marriage to the Imp. His precious little bird had simply been given away to another Lannister lion just like a bone tossed to a hungry dog and Sandor felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. Learning she had thankfully escaped brought him a certain amount of . . . relief, but he also bitterly realized that Sansa was probably lost to him forever. “The little bird flew away, did she? Well, bloody good for her. She shit on the Imp’s head and flew off,” he’d said. But at that moment, Sandor also simply stopped caring whether he lived or died as his heart broke into a million tiny pieces.

First, he'd started by drowning himself in a sea of wine, drinking his way into a drunken stupor much like he used to do almost every night in King's Landing. And then he found himself in a vicious brawl with his brother Gregor’s men while he was at the Inn at the Crossroads with the younger Stark sister, Arya.

Oh, they'd won the fight against his brother's men alright, no matter how drunk he was; Sandor killed Polliver, and the Stark girl killed the squire and the man they called the Tickler. He had to admit, the little she-wolf definitely was a killer; so very unlike her older sister Sansa, with all her ladylike courtesies and her head filled with songs and gallant knights. “Fuck the knights, they can all go bugger themselves with a hot poker for all I care, bloody hypocrites the lot of them,” Sandor almost growled out loud.

But that wasn’t before he got himself seriously injured during the fight, and when his wound festered, he was left to die alone under a bloody tree by the banks of the Trident by the little wolf girl after trying and failing to get her to kill him, to get her to end his bloody misery.

Sighing deeply in exasperation, Sandor tossed and turned again in his bed, tugging impatiently at his blankets, his mind reeling at the flood of memories overwhelming him. Finally tossing the bed sheets roughly aside in pure frustration, he slowly sat down on his bed, swinging his strong legs over the side and massaging his wounded thigh. The wound had healed well enough, thanks to the Elder Brother's 'healing hands,' but the puckered scar would remain and Sandor knew he'd probably walk with a blasted limp for the rest of his miserable life.

Throwing his brown-and-dun brother’s robes over himself – not even bothering with smallclothes – he decided to wander over to the stables and see Stranger. His huge black stallion was at the far end of the stable in the last stall, well away from the other animals. The silent brothers barely kept half a dozen mules on the Quiet Isle and no horses. None of his fellow silent brothers with any wits about them had dared approach ‘Driftwood’ again ever since his warhorse kicked Brother Rawney in the shin and broke the plump man’s shinbone in two places and bit off Brother Gillam’s ear off.

Sandor snorted at the thought. Try to rein in a man’s warhorse and harness him to a plough and that’s what you get: Blood. “A warhorse is for fighting, not bloody field work,” he warned the Elder Brother while this one had simply smiled back at him. Bugger him. No one would geld his horse while he still had breath left in him. So no one had even tried to approach Stranger again, not even the Elder Brother.

He picked up an apple and approached his courser, feeding him the ripe fruit while he patted him on his flank, talking to him, soothing him. Stranger seemed happy enough to see him and took the offering from his master’s large hand in one bite. Sandor sat beside him on the stall floor while Stranger whinnied softly after he’d finished chewing and swallowing the offering.

Then Sandor turned his thoughts back to Sansa Stark.

Sandor Clegane was well aware that he'd already failed to save his little bird even before she was married off to that whore-loving Imp. Fact was, he'd failed her back in King's Landing when he allowed Joffrey's creatures to beat her bloody time and time again; the worst part was being unable to do a damn thing about it, or Joffrey would have had _his_ head on a spike right next to Ned Stark’s rotting one.

And then he'd failed her again, on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater.

The worst part came later when he was suddenly hit with the sickening realization that what he had felt for Sansa Stark had been more than the need to protect the girl from Joffrey's constant abuse. That maybe it was much more than that. “You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday when you're queen, and I'm all that stands between you and your _beloved_ king,” he'd sneered at her days after he'd saved the girl from being raped during the bread riots when she crossed his path in the Red Keep and thanked him – essentially pledging himself and his sword to her above that little shit of a king Joffrey. But she’d just walked away while his gaze had followed her longingly as she left.

Sandor shook his head at the memory while he rubbed the back of his stiff neck. _Just like a bloody squire lovesick with his first kitchen wench, you pathetic dog_.

At first Sandor had told himself he was simply infatuated with the little bird because she reminded him so much of himself as a child, before his brother Gregor burned half his face into a twisted ruin in the burning coals of a brazier. Back then, before he was burned, his own head had been filled with knights and songs, just like Sansa. And then a deep dark part of him also considered that the girl reminded him of his own beloved sister who’d been so full of life and hope and songs too; before she’d mysteriously died.

But there was no real mystery there, Sandor thought bitterly. _Gregor killed her, just as I should have killed him_ . . . But that too was denied to him, was it not? Just like Sansa was.

Sandor rose again to make his way back to his cell, but not before patting Stranger on the neck again. The horse neighed softly as his master slowly left the stables. Outside, the night was still dark but the sky was speckled by a multitude of tiny shining stars while the moon was hidden somewhere behind a cluster of dark clouds. Sandor looked at them thoughtfully. Was she looking at the stars too? Was she alright? Was she safe? Fuck he was desperate, and he felt completely foolish. _Looking at the stars now, dog? You never cared about them before – are you turning into a love sick puppy again? Well, bugger me._

And then it suddenly dawned on him, to his complete and utter horror, that everything he'd done for Sansa – standing between her and Joffrey, protecting her to the best of his ability at every turn, stopping her from committing regicide, even _lying_ for her (and oh, how much he hated liars) – was done because he'd fallen hopelessly in love with the silly, chirping woman-child. How the fuck did that happen?

Sandor was fully aware he had lusted after Sansa Stark ever since King's Landing. Perhaps even before that. The first time he’d seen her in Winterfell, might be? Could be. But he well remembered the shameful pangs of lust the Stark girl had started to awaken in him when he'd started following and trailing her on Queen Cersei’s orders.

How many times he’d caught himself with his eyes flickering over her chest, feeling his breeches getting uncomfortably tight over his hardening member because of the little bird's growing curves? He had noticed how the northern dresses she’d brought with her from Winterfell were getting too small for her, and how her perfect white breasts were now almost spilling out of those too-tight gowns, begging to be cupped and gently sucked on.

Seven buggering hells! Sansa Stark had unknowingly tempted him at every turn.

Sandor remembered that particular time when he had caught the girl returning surreptitiously from the godswood in the night, when they'd bumped into each other on the serpentine. Fuck. He'd been so drunk that night. But in order to protect the frightened girl from another beating from Ser Boros Blount or Ser Meryn Trant, those fucking shining paragons of knighthood, he'd taken it upon himself to accompany the little bird directly back to her cage.

And, of course, he had to open his stupid fucking mouth, carrying on about her teats and her womanly curves, even though his mind was screaming at him not to say a fucking word. She was, after all, still a child.

But the copious amount of wine he'd drunk that night cut his inhibitions – and what was left of his wits – short, and Sandor did open his mouth. Not only that but he’d openly leered at the girl too. “You look almost a woman . . . face, teats, and you're taller too, almost . . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird aren't you? Singing all the songs they thought you . . . sing me a song, why don't you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don't you?”

No wonder Sansa had been terrified of him then. “T-true knights, my lord.” She had answered back, fear palpable in her small voice and in her Tully-blue eyes, while he noticed that a deep blush had crept over her cheeks, sending a sharp stab of arousal through him.

Sandor remembered how he had mercilessly teased Sansa with her true lords this and her true knights that, until he almost saw tears in the Stark girl's eyes – to his shameful satisfaction – before he'd brought her right back to her bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast. Then he'd scared her even more with his talk of all that a man needed was a flagon of sour red, dark as blood, or a woman. _Stupid, stupid Dog. You could never keep your bloody mouth shut around the girl now, could you?_ Seven hells, why in the Maiden’s teats did Sansa Stark have such an effect on him? 

The girl had simply stared openly at him with eyes becoming as big and as round as saucers, her beautiful enticing pink lips opening in a perfect O.

Sansa's shocked reaction didn't help matters when Sandor got hit with the sudden vision of his little bird's enticing lips opening wide to take in his aching cock, getting the girl to stop her incessant bloody chirping by having her slowly suckle on his hard member, imagining her head bobbing up and down while she bloody well pleasured him . . . Gods! He'd had to painfully dig his nails into his palms until he almost drew blood to stop himself from thinking – or even acting on – those thoughts.

She was still a child, still unflowered, he'd tried telling himself over and over again, disgusted by his growing desire for the girl. _The Others take me._

When Sansa Stark had finally finished with her usual courtesies and he'd brought her safely back to her bedchamber, she’d quickly disappeared behind her bedroom door, closing it shut in his face. Sandor recalled how he had run back to his own chambers with his breeches straining painfully over his hard cock, all the while hoping the little bird hadn't noticed the massive bulge swelling just below his tunic.

As soon as he'd found himself alone in his small dark room, he'd laid back heavily against the locked door, fumbled against his laces, and released his aching member.

He remembered how the clear fluid had already started leaking at the tip of his cock so he'd rubbed his thumb over it to spread the wetness around his cockhead before sliding his hand down his length to squeeze the stem of his rock-hard shaft, sending some wonderful shivers down his spine and making him groan. Then he'd started stroking himself slowly with his eyes closed shut, while a sharp mixture of shame and arousal brought forth by mental images of the little bird's teats playing in his head both disturbed and excited him.

Thoughts of her heaving breasts overflowing the top of her too-small dress; of her perfect pink lips opened in a perfect O in that perfect small heart-shaped face of hers; of her beautiful Tully-blue eyes and long auburn hair had all been enough to make him pump himself harder and faster. His climax came hard upon him while he'd fucked into his hand, grunting and groaning Sansa's name while he felt his cock pulse and his seed spilled wildly in white hot spurts over his hand, his breeches, and his tunic, making him shudder in overwhelming pleasure while sweat covered his brow.

Then he had promised himself he would never think of the little bird like that again.

But on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, when he'd panicked at the sight of the fires and the green death that surrounded him everywhere and abandoned the battle and his men after he’d lost half of them, Sandor fled directly to Sansa's chambers in a bid to take her with him and away from that cunt of a king. He'd even told Joffrey to go fuck himself, to his intense satisfaction. “Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the city. Fuck the king,” he’d told both the half-man and Joff under the cold, pouring rain, while Stannis Baratheon’s men were knocking at their gates.

So he'd waited in her room covered in the blood and gore and sweat of the battle with only his wineskin for company, drinking deep from it until his little bird had finally shown up.

At first, his intentions had been purely honorable. He wanted to take the girl home to Winterfell and to what was left of her family. He wanted to keep her safe.

But Sansa _fucking_ Stark had barely even looked at him when he asked her, almost shyly, if she wanted to come north with him. The whole time his heart had pounded hard as a drum in his chest. He'd actually been so nervous about asking her he almost felt sick: After all, why would a beautiful, highborn lady like Sansa Stark leave a besieged city with an old, scarred, ugly Lannister Dog?

To make things worse Sansa answered that she preferred to take her chances in the Red Keep and that Stannis wouldn't hurt her; all the while pointedly averting her gaze. That harsh rejection made Sandor Clegane feel as though his insides had been set on fire.

So he'd snapped and snarled at his little bird, bringing his scarred and blood-covered face only inches away from hers.

“Look at me!” he'd barked at her while taking her roughly by the arm. She then fearfully raised her eyes to meet his gaze and he glowered at her.

The Hound decided that he would give the girl another harsh dose of reality whether she wanted to hear it or not.

“Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer . . . ” He looked away for a second before returning his eyes to hers as he continued his rant, his voice now thick with something akin to regret, “your sons will be killers someday.” Sandor had then swayed on his feet a bit before finishing, “The world is built by killers. So you better get used to looking at them.”

Sandor bitterly knew that he'd been talking about the sons he had sometimes dared to imagine he’d have with his little bird. What a fool he was.

 _You're a stupid dog_ , Sandor had thought. _She doesn't want you or love you. Why would she leave with you?_ But she had angered him, and he suddenly thought about pushing her down onto that feather bed of hers and just fuck her roughly, no, slowly, he wanted to fuck her slowly, then and there.

But then she raised her beautiful face and looked at him, really looked at him, as though she were seeing him for the first time. She spoke with a certainty Sandor had never before seen in her, reflected in her clear blue eyes.

“You won't hurt me.”

And in that cruel instant, Sandor knew his little bird was right, and that he would never hurt her.

Because in the depths of his scarred and brutal heart, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the burned and fearsome warrior truly wanted just one thing: For Sansa Stark to look on his face without fear, to spread her long legs for him, to be wet and willing for his touch, and to moan his name in desire.

“No, little bird, I won't hurt you,” was all he said, was all he could say, sadness and disappointment painfully etched across his face; and so he'd turned around, walked out of her room and seemingly out of her life forever.

And so he left her behind in King's Landing; for the Lions or the Stag he hadn't known.

Sandor had tried to make his peace with everything that had happened to him ever since that night, before his arrival on the Quiet Isle when he took on the guise of a simple novice digging graves. Turning his thoughts to digging graves in the lichyard, to the tides of the river which swept in the rotting corpses to be buried, to the endless labor of shovelling earth day after day, until each night he’d fall asleep free from thoughts of her. Of his little bird. Of Sansa Stark.

He'd even considered becoming a Brother of the Faith so he could leave behind what had made him the Hound, since the Elder Brother had buried his armor and left the Hound’s snarling dog helm on that false grave on the shores of the Trident, where he had once been left to die.

The Hound was dead now, but Sandor Clegane lived on.

And so for a time he'd found a certain contentment with his new life as the gravedigger. A certain kind of peace, until the ground would freeze over, and winter would come.

But that was until Brienne of Tarth arrived on the Quiet Isle, and all of Sandor's old warrior instincts had roared back to life. Once again, all he could think of was his little bird, to somehow find her, and to finally keep her safe and bring her back home.

Right now, he just didn't know how in the seven hells he was going to manage to find her in the first place.


	2. Sansa 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Gates of the Moon, Alayne Stone is being told by her 'father,' Littlefinger, that her betrothed, one Ser Harrold Hardyng, wants her maidenhead assessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to my new awesome Beta girloficenfire who helped make this text much better and saved me from blunder <3
> 
> In this chapter I tried to play with Sansa/Alayne’s duality. While she obviously thinks of herself as Sansa while deep in her dreams – especially with the Hound, she is Alayne in her waking moments at this point. But there were places where I wasn’t sure if she should call herself Alayne or Sansa tbh. Feel free to let me know what you guys think of how I handled that bit (it wasn’t easy). Also I know getting your maidenhead checked by the Elder Brother is maybe a little far-fetched but I needed to get Sansa there and, well, that’s what I came up with.

**CHAPTER 2: SANSA 1**

Back in her room at the Gates of the Moon, Alayne Stone was dreaming.

In her dreams she was both Sansa Stark and Alayne Stone; both Lord Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully's dutiful and beautiful red-haired daughter, spouting her courtesies left and right, and Lord Petyr Baelish's fierce bastard one with a mane of dull brownish strands who was learning to play the game of thrones.

She was dreaming that she was back in King's Landing, back in her marriage bed with Tyrion Lannister, the Imp – who had mercifully left her and her maidenhead alone and intact after he'd promised Sansa he'd never touch her against her will. And to Sansa’s surprise and relief the dwarf – her Lord Husband – had kept his promise.

She also knew where her dream was taking her next, and she couldn't wait for it to happen.

For the past few weeks, Alayne had been having the same dream over and over again, with little variation. And she was now looking forward to one part in particular more than anything in the world; that most precious, wonderful part that had awakened so many unknown feelings and desires in her. 

In her dream, someone taller and broader than the dwarf was always slowly replacing her Lord Husband. _Someone bigger than Tyrion has any right to be_ , she thought. Someone who towered over everyone she knew – except for the monstrous Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides – someone who had a raspy voice and a face almost half ruined by ugly burns. Someone who could be menacing . . . but who was also kind to her in his own gruff way. It was a face she now thrilled to see every night and she knew that that was when the dream would start to make her wet and aching again.

She had dreamed of the Hound in her marriage bed many times before – the dreams had started months ago when she had first arrived at the Eyrie for her father's marriage to her Aunt Lysa. It was on the night of Petyr and Lysa's bedding, in fact, that the Hound had first manifested himself in her dreams of her marriage bed. But the dreams had never gone further than him simply being there; and though she knew he had always been naked, she could never really see his strong powerful body clearly. He was always shrouded in darkness.

Until a few weeks ago when she had her very first vivid dream of the Hound.

After the Hound had once again replaced her husband Tyrion in their marriage bed, the dream went much further. In this new dream, the Hound was slowly making his way towards her on the feather mattress as she desperately grasped and held the bed sheets over her heaving breasts to try and hide her nakedness. She was nervous but she also felt a sort of trepidation she had never experienced before; a weird sensation started pooling deep between her legs and up her spine, resulting in a steady thumping beat that she found immensely pleasurable.

When the naked Hound stopped and stood towering over her on all fours, with his weight pressing heavily on the bed around her, he had asked her in his rasping voice “What are you doing, girl?”

She hadn't known what to say then, in the dream. She never does. So the Hound had laughed and had simply ripped the sheet away from her desperate grasp so he could drink in her nakedness. Sansa had never felt more exposed in her life but at the same time she wanted him to see her naked, wanted him to drink in the sight of her body. She wanted him to see her as she was.

She recalled the way the Hound had gazed and leered at her that time in Maegor's Holdfast when he had come to take her to Queen Cersei after her father had been arrested as a traitor. She remembered how his eyes had almost undressed her from top to bottom and how his mouth had made this sort of half-smiling, lascivious smirk. She had been terrified of him then. But now, it excited her.

Back in her dream the Hound lowered his face in very close to hers, as he had done in her room during the Battle of the Blackwater. He was so close their noses would almost touch. And then he would lean in and kiss her, just as he also did that time. But instead of lips pressed cruelly over hers, the kiss would be softer and the Hound would open his mouth slightly and touch his tongue to hers, as Randa had told her people often did when kissing. And Sansa would feel herself moan into his mouth as her tongue also played back slowly with his.

Then, as it always happened, he would gently nudge open her legs with his knees and then he would lower himself over her aching womanhood. She could never make out the size and length of his manhood in her dreams, never could touch it as he would always keep her hands at bay . . . but she felt that it was big and hard, as Randa had also whispered to her it would be. This was the moment when Sansa's ache always amplified and she felt her nipples harden at the thought of the intimate touch of the Hound's hard member pressing heavily against the nub between her legs. And the moment when she would also get wet.

She still knew she was dreaming, of course, but she also knew that she wanted more. She wanted him inside of her, wanted him to pleasure her, just as Randa had also said this was what men did to women during their love making. That they slid their rock hard _cocks_ into a woman's wet _cunt_ to pleasure them. Alayne had blushed at the words Randa had used but she knew she wanted the Hound to do this to her too, to put his . . . _cock_ in her. Sansa almost willed it, and she could almost feel him slide inside her wetness just as she had recently started to slip her fingers inside of her in order to ease her ache. But it never felt quite right, somehow.

She would whimper and she would moan, and the Hound would say, “You're a needy one, aren't you little bird?” And then Alayne would wake up, close to her release, but not quite there yet.

So she would slide her hands over her flat belly, down to her wet and aching lady parts and have her fingers flutter over her nub before she would start making fast, tight circles over it, moaning and writhing in her bed. Sometimes, she would pinch her hardened nipples and play with them, just as she had dreamt the Hound was doing to her. And when she was close to her release she would quickly jam one or even two fingers inside her . . . _cunt_ , sliding them in and out of her fast but not too deep, just as Randa had told her to do, until she came so hard she would almost cry out . . . But she always kept her moans muffled inside her pillows in case someone would over-hear.

The very first time Alayne had ever peaked while rubbing herself there, she remembered how her body had stiffened under her fingertips as she reached that very first all-consuming climax, almost blacking out. Now she rides out her pleasure with her hips rolling against her fingers and the waves that engulf her body, as Randa had told her it was much better this way.

And so Alayne had woken once again this morning, aching, wet and unsatisfied, and as she had often done so many times before lately, she reached that little bundle of flesh and nerves over her slick folds with her long fingers to rub it desperately, and, within minutes, she reached her peak, thinking of her beloved non-Ser as he was sliding in and out of her, moving her hips up and down on her bed while her fingers slipped in and out of her wetness to rub over her sensitized nub.

Later that morning, when she walked into her father's solar after he had requested she attend him there, she found him in something akin to a foul mood. Petyr Baelish very rarely allowed Alayne to see him like this, so it was quite strange to her to see such a usually composed man almost agitated.

He was staring hard at a sheet of crumpled paper that he seemed to be reading over and over again and his face had a slight flush of pink to it. _This does not bode well_.

Alayne dutifully sat next to him in a high backed chair with her hands clasped in her lap as she waited for him to say something. She was wearing a light blue satin gown that brought out her eyes and was cut low over her chest; it was a gown she knew that greatly pleased him. She slightly shuddered at the thought.

“It seems our carefully laid plans have hit a bit of a momentary snag,” he finally said. Petyr Baelish was of course referring to his plan to marry his bastard daughter Alayne to Ser Harrold Hardyng, the Young Falcon – the heir that stood to inherit the Eyrie and the Vale if her young cousin Sweetrobin died. The original plan was to wait for Cersei to be done as queen and for Sansa to be officially widowed before marrying her to Harry after their betrothal. Then he planned on revealing her as being Sansa Stark and would then reclaim Winterfell in her name.

As for little Robert Arryn, Alayne feared her sweet cousin was bound to die anytime now – he was getting weaker and weaker by the hour, thanks to his intake of the milk of the poppy. Alayne had a feeling this was all Petyr’s doing.

“It appears the little cunt,” Littlefinger all but spat the word, “has decided he wants to make sure that you are still a maiden before marrying you, sweetling. And nothing short of the sworn written assurances of a Holy man or woman will do to assuage his fear and doubt that you are, as was promised, a maiden.”

Alayne tried to hide her surprise and lowered her eyes down to her lap. “Won't a maester or a septa do to assure him that I am indeed still untouched, father?” Alayne murmured as she fumbled with her dress. Her thoughts turned to her betrothed, Harry Hardyng.

A fortnight ago, Alayne had finally met the gallant and newly knighted handsome young man, the darling ward of Lady Anya Waynwood and – so the gossip went – the father of two bastard children, at the Gates of the Moon. Alayne and her father had received Harrold Hardyng and his entourage with bread and meat and mead, followed by a rich feast made up of many extravagant courses of meats and fishes and sweets. The wine and the mead had flown freely, and Alayne and her friends Myranda Royce and Mya Stone had gossiped about Alayne's handsome young betrothed while Alayne had exchanged blushing glances with him across the table.

Harry had been pleasant enough to Alayne – his attitude towards her had been both civil and attentive, and they danced together a total of ten times before the night was over. And she did find him quite handsome. Despite his young age he was already six feet tall, towering over most men, with a mop of pale straw hair that was cut short. His face was clean-shaven and he had dark blue eyes and a pale complexion.

Yet though Alayne had liked him, she also found something lacking in him – but she didn't know what, exactly. He had kissed her good night at the end of the feast, pressing soft lips to her own expectant ones, and had even opened his mouth to roll his tongue over hers. He had tasted of sweet wine and honey and his hand had brushed over the small of her back, sending some pleasant shivers down her spine. Then he had bowed low and had bid her goodnight with a twinkle in his eye, leaving Alayne flustered.

That same night Alayne, Randa and Mya had played games in Alayne's room, imagining how big Harry the Heir's manhood truly was . . . and Alayne had blushed furiously the following morning when she had joined Harry in her father's solar to break their fast.

But the night before, and all the nights after, Alayne hadn't dreamed of Harrold Hardyng. She still only dreamed of the Hound.

“It would appear not,” Petyr Baelish said in reply to Alayne’s question, bringing her back to the present moment. “In order for our plans to go ahead, you'll need to travel to the Quiet Isle, a holy isle of silent brothers quite a few leagues from here. Both your betrothed and Lady Waynwood have insisted on this. It's a few weeks there and back, I'm afraid, and the Elder Brother – the holy man in charge of the septry there – cannot spare the time to make the trip to the Vale at present. A pity, really.” He leaned over to Alayne’s side and brushed his knuckles over her cheek, making her inwardly shudder again. _Please, do not try to kiss me again_ , she thought, staying as still as possible.

Then Littlefinger looked thoughtfully at his 'daughter' for a few minutes before adding sweetly, “You _are_ still a maiden, are you not, Alayne?” His breath was almost hot on her cheek and still smelled of mint.

Alayne's head jerked up almost defiantly. “Of course I am, the Imp never touched me, as I've told you before.” Adding, a few seconds later than was proper, “father.”

“And . . . no one since?” He was smirking thinly at her, his eyes boring right through her. Petyr was still so close to her she could almost feel the heat radiating from him.

Alayne tried not to look shocked. _Who does he think could have touched me ever since we have arrived at the Eyrie? The dead singer Marillion? Ser Lothor Brune? One of the kitchen or stable boys? One of his many knights or sellswords? Not that he himself hasn't tried or wished it to happen_. “Of course not, father.”

“Good,” Petyr Baelish smiled that sweet smirk of his that Alayne hated so much and slumped back in his chair. “Prepare your clothes and your things, sweetling. You're going on a little trip.”


	3. Sandor 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elder Brother tells Sandor Clegane that Sansa Stark has been found in the Vale. How does the former Lannister Hound react to the news?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super major thanks to my awesome Beta girloficenfire who helped make this text much better once more!!

**CHAPTER 3: SANDOR 2**

The Elder Brother's gaze was locked intently on the massive man sitting directly on the other side of his worktable. Made entirely of driftwood planks, it was completely littered with opened religious books on the Faith of the Seven and discarded parchments, though the inkpots and writing tools were neatly placed to the Elder Brother’s right. But the one parchment of interest, a small piece of paper, was laid out in front of him; and he could see that the man's whole body was as tensed and as taut as a crossbow.

The Elder Brother had summoned Sandor Clegane – or Brother Digger, as he liked to call him – to his inner sanctum in the Hermit's Hole as soon as the raven had arrived. It carried with it some important tidings concerning the Stark girl, and Clegane knew it.

*****

After the female warrior knight Brienne of Tarth had departed the Quiet Isle along with Septon Meribald and her two companions, Ser Hyle Hunt and the young squire Podrick Payne, it hadn't taken long before Brother Digger came to the Elder Brother about Sansa Stark.

Of course, the Elder Brother already knew about the highborn girl from Winterfell. Months ago, when he’d found the Hound – the dead boy King Joffrey Baratheon’s former dog – dying from his wounds under a tree by the banks of the Trident, Clegane had confessed to him that he was in love with the Stark girl during his fevered delirium. The broad and scarred tall man had even kept calling her “little bird” quite a few times.

The Elder Brother knew that the Seven had put him and a few of his fellow silent brothers in the Hound's path for a reason that fateful day – and that reason was to save Sandor Clegane and his poor sinful soul.

He also recalled how the Hound's warhorse Stranger – big and handsome but ill-tempered – had stood by his mortally wounded master, grazing only a few feet away from him. The Elder Brother then remembered how arduous it had been to bring the two of them back with them to the Quiet Isle, the master and the horse both being ill-tempered and ill-mannered creatures. The Elder Brother had had to give Clegane some milk of the poppy so that the former Hound could walk to the wheelbarrow wagon and climb into it on his own power; he was simply far too heavy and racked with fever and pain for the Elder Brother and the others to lift.

When Sandor Clegane first approached the Elder Brother with his request to help him find Sansa Stark, he had begged him to do something, anything, to help him find her. Then, when he had stood simply silent, Clegane had raged, the burned side of his face almost twitching, barking that he would leave the Quiet Isle and look for the girl himself and that the Elder Brother could go to all the seven buggering hells if he wanted to try and stop him.

Still, the Elder Brother had remained silent, his hands drawn pensively over his lips, letting the broad man in front of him rage on until he quieted at last. Only then had he finally spoken.

“We may be a simple order of simple brothers here, and we may be striving to stay away from the wars and politics of the Seven Kingdoms as much as we possibly can, but I am not without compassion and I am also not without friends.” The Elder Brother had looked intently at Clegane, his eyes boring into the former Lannister dog. “I will send ravens and ask my friends in Westeros and the free cities if they have come across such a girl fitting the description of Sansa Stark.”

Then the Elder Brother saw how Sandor Clegane almost seemed to relax at his words and he heard him let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. “However,” he added kindly, “if this girl is found, you will agree to have nothing to do with her. Is that understood, Brother Digger?” A few seconds later he added, “For both your sakes.”

*****

So after many long, slow, and painful months of waiting, Sandor Clegane was once again sitting in front of the holy man who’d saved him from certain death – and he knew it must be because the Elder Brother had news of the little bird’s whereabouts. Well, there was also the possibility that he was also sitting here because he had lost his temper earlier today and punched that skinny brother Wilfred – the one with the weasel-like face – after this one had refused him a skin of wine. He snorted inwardly at the thought of Brother Wilfred sporting a shiny black eye. Of course, Sandor hoped he was there to discuss the little bird and not Brother Wilfred.

Sandor liked the Elder Brother (and Sandor almost never liked anyone). Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he'd also been a warrior and a fighter in a previous life, just like him. It didn't matter to Sandor that the Elder Brother had been a knight, though Sandor's hatred of knights ran deeper than the seven hells. What mattered was that the Elder Brother knew where Sandor came from and understood him, understood his need to fight and keep his skills as a fighter honed. Sandor often trained in the orchards with a sword before going to sleep at night after his grave digging duties were done and he had supped; The Elder Brother didn’t deny him that after he’d made it plain he wanted Sansa found. By getting his body back in fighting shape, he’d be ready for any eventuality regarding the little bird. Most importantly, the Elder Brother also never lied to Sandor, who hated liars above all else.

But even though Sandor liked and respected the man, sometimes the two of them had their disagreements – and Sansa Stark was one of them.

Sandor glanced at the severe stoic look on the holy man's face, whose head was large and square and his jaw heavy and stubbly; much like his tonsured scalp for that matter. His nose was red and veiny and his eyes were shrewd, but they could also be kind when he wanted to, just like now – it was enough to churn Sandor’s insides to the point where he thought he might have to go outside before he retched the contents of his stomach in the yard.

“What did you call me in for?” Sandor said, trying to sound completely casual and disinterested – but all the while he was also attempting to ignore the queasiness he felt in his stomach. He knew that he likely wasn't fooling anyone – especially the Elder Brother, and least of all himself.

“No need to pretend that you don't know why you are here, Brother Digger,” the Elder Brother kindly told him. “Yes, Sansa Stark has been found . . . somewhat safe and sound.”

“Somewhat safe and sound? What the fuck does that mean?” Sandor growled, his large hands clenched tight over his thighs, his knuckles turning white under the strain.

The Elder Brother raised his right hand, gesturing for Sandor to keep calm.

“I have learned that Sansa Stark is now in the hands of the Lord Protector of the Vale and the Eyrie, Lord of Harrenhal, and King's Landing’s former Master of Coin, Petyr Baelish,” the Elder Brother said, looking narrowly at Clegane's face. “But there is more . . .”

 _My little bird is in that blasted Littlefinger's hands? That little mockingbird fucker. I will go to the Eyrie, find him myself, and kill him if he's hurt her. I will wring his small neck proper and shit on him_ , was Sandor's first reaction to the news. Then he thought, _wait, the Elder Brother said there was more_ . . . He felt himself getting even sicker, if that was possible, and would have fidgeted in his seat – but then his years of soldiering duties kicked in and made him sit as still as a statue of the Warrior in his chair.

“It appears that Littlefinger is passing the Lady Stark as his bastard daughter, an Alayne Stone, and that he has betrothed her to a Ser Harrold Hardyng, a young knight who is next in line as heir to the Vale and the Eyrie after the child Lord Robert Arryn. I’m afraid that my eyes and ears also tell me that this child is, sadly, not long for this world.”

The Elder Brother paused and looked at Sandor intently. If he wasn’t going to finish telling the rest of his already awful news soon, Sandor thought he wanted very much to wring the man’s neck. _Surely such a marriage to this young lordling is impossible? Surely Sansa is still married to the Imp even though she flew away from him? Unless the dwarf is dead. What’s all this?_ Sandor knew it had that fucking Littlefinger written all over it. He had always been wary of that weasel Master of Coin with his sickening minty breath and shifty eyes. “What else?” he managed to say calmly, leaving him a bit smug over his own self-control for a moment.

“I’ve had a raven from Petyr Baelish himself and the Lady Alayne is now on her way here,” the Elder Brother finally said, eyes still clapped intently on the former Hound. Then he continued as if he didn’t notice Sandor’s sudden sharp intake of breath, “She'll be arriving here with a small entourage to have the state of her maidenhood assessed and reported back to both Lord Baelish and Ser Harrold before this . . . wedding can proceed.” Then he added, “She should be here within the week.”

Sandor managed to stare blankly at the man sitting across him, though inside, he was screaming. _The little bird is on her way here? They want to assess the state of her maidenhood? Surely she's no longer a maid after having been married to that shit of a dwarf. Tyrion Lannister doesn't have a courteous bone in his body and he'd fuck anything with teats and a cunt. He is a fucking Lannister after all._

Sandor rose slowly from his chair. His head was spinning and his skin became clammy and sweaty as he gazed down at the Elder Brother before grumbling out a simple “Thank you.” Then he started to turn and leave.

“Brother Digger?” the Elder Brother said before he was about to step out of the Hermit's Hole.

Sandor stopped dead in his tracks, his huge frame almost filling out the entire door, pointedly not looking back.

“Remember what we talked about. It would be better for you to have nothing to do with Sansa Stark. My advice is keep to the shadows, stick to your grave digging duties, and do not seek her out.” Then he added kindly, “You know that this is for your own good.”

Sandor tensed for a second before slowly nodding his assent while he already knew, deep down inside, that he had no intentions to keep to that promise. Not one whit. 


	4. Sansa 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Alayne Stone' arrives at the Quiet Isle and gets her maidenhead assessed by the Elder Brother. While there, she makes a stunning discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, major thanks to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire who made this chapter so much better than it was <3

**CHAPTER 4: SANSA 2**

On the fur-covered bed of her small cottage on the Quiet Isle, Alayne was cringing and trying to remain as still as she could and not fidget as the Elder Brother's hands gently prodded at her womanly place. He nudged here and there to feel if her precious maidenhead – irrefutable proof that she was still a maiden – was still intact while he seemed to be peering intently at her entrance. Sansa couldn’t see his face, but she could see his tonsured scalp which was relatively stubbly. The process was an uncomfortable and humiliating one; Alayne's legs were straining to remain opened to allow the holy man access to her womanhood.

Her arms were tense beside her taut body and her hands were bunched into tight little fists, her knuckles almost white with tension as Alayne desperately grasped her blankets. She bit down hard on her lower lip to stifle the small cry of discomfort that wanted to escape her lips. A small cry of discomfort, yes, but also a cry of mortification at having a man's fingers – even a holy brother’s – prodding around her womanly place.

After a minute more the Elder Brother finally took his fingers away from Alayne’s womanhood and looked up at her not unkindly.

“In the name of the Seven, the girl Alayne Stone is indeed still a maiden fair and pure,” he told the two silent brothers – a Brother Narbert and a Brother Urich – who were standing still as sentinels by Alayne's side, witnesses to this sort of semi-religious ceremonial event. Alayne's best friend, the Lady Myranda Royce, stood still and silent in the shadows at the back of the room.

 _Father will be quite pleased_ , Alayne thought bitterly while the Elder Brother and the other two silent ones left her cottage quietly. She was no fool. She knew that though her betrothed Ser Harrold Hardyng had demanded proof of her maidenhood before their wedding, she was also there for Littlefinger’s benefit. The brothers of the Quiet Isle were revered as holy men – especially the Elder Brother – and his testimony was more precious than all the gold of Casterly Rock.

Thanks to this now irrefutable proof that Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion Lannister had not been consummated, it could now be declared null and void – and Alayne had a terrible feeling that though Petyr would still marry her to Harry as planned, she felt that her cousin, Sweetrobin, would die, and then Harry would soon follow unexpectedly and, preferably for Petyr, before the bedding could take place. _Much like Joffrey died,_ she thought. This would allow Petyr to then wed her himself and in the same swift stroke reveal to the Seven Kingdoms – and the rest of the world – that Alayne Stone was in fact Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell and rightful Queen in the North.

The idea of marrying Petyr Baelish made Alayne seriously ill. The thought of his minty breath, of his tongue darting into her mouth when he made her sit in his lap, him pressing his hard member against her bottom while fondling her was more than enough to make her sick. The thought of his manhood buried deep inside her while he would no doubt cry out her mother's name, “Cat,” while he was spilling his seed in her was completely revolting to her.

Alayne also knew that with her sweet cousin Robert and Harry’s convenient deaths, Petyr Baelish would become the rightful Lord of the Vale and the Eyrie, and – worst of all – through his marriage to her he would also be Lord of Winterfell and King in the North in all but name.

Wrestling the Wardenship of the North from Roose Bolton's tight grasp would be child’s play for Petyr, with the might of the Vale and the whole of the North uniting behind Sansa Stark as soon as it was revealed that Bolton's bastard son Ramsay's marriage to 'Arya Stark' was a sham, and that Arya was in truth poor Jeyne Poole, a childhood friend of none other than Sansa herself.

By holding the North through his new wife Petyr would become one of the most powerful players in the game of thrones and would then surely set his lofty sights to the Iron Throne itself. For though the dragon queen Daenerys Targaryen was no doubt poised to soon take back her ancestral seat with her army of Unsullied and her fire-breathing dragons, she was still on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

Alayne knew that she had to stop Petyr Baelish and ruin his carefully laid plans. But how?

She could try to flee, but she knew she wouldn't get very far on her own. And besides Randa, she was quite friendless on the Quiet Isle. Friendless and moneyless; so that was clearly not a viable option. Sansa had no survival skills to be able to leave – and live – on her own.

All of the five guards who had attended her on this journey south belonged to the Vale and, by extension, to Petyr Baelish. He had especially picked men he knew were completely faithful to him to accompany his beloved daughter on her journey to the Quiet Isle and back, while he himself had elected to remain behind at the Gates of the Moon in order to deal with some new pressing business there.

No doubt it was the acquisition of a brand new brothel down in Gulltown.

Alayne's head felt like it was about to explode.

To clear her mind and think carefully on her plan about what to do next, Alayne decided to take a stroll through the grounds of the Quiet Isle by herself, quickly dismissing Randa and the guards.

The guards had not put up much of a fight, preferring to play dice games and drink the excellent mead made by the silent brothers. _Where can I go, after all?_ Alayne thought. Passage to and from the Quiet Isle was no easy feat. _I would need to take the ferry, or make my way through a dangerous muddy path at low tide._ Only her friend Myranda had really wanted to accompany Alayne, and she had looked worriedly at her young friend when she had flatly refused.

Because what Alayne needed was to be alone with her thoughts. She had to lay down some carefully thought plans against Petyr Baelish.

She started making her way slowly down the terraced fields towards the fish ponds to be found at the base of the island. Her ‘father’ had taught her to always have an endgame, and Alayne Stone was trying very hard to think about what hers should be. Fleeing was one idea, but it was dangerous, difficult, and downright unrealistic. She'd get caught in a heartbeat.

It dawned on her then that destroying her precious maidenhead was another idea entirely. Even if she did it to merely spite Littlefinger, Harry the Heir would then probably refuse to marry her, derailing Petyr's carefully laid-out plans and saving Ser Harrold Hardyng's life in the bargain. And that, she thought, would make her very, very happy.

Her problem was that everyone here on the island with her was either a holy brother or a stable or kitchen boy, or a novice, and no one – not even those of her guards that she noticed openly leering at her when her father's back was turned – would be willing to 'assist' her in discarding her precious maidenhead . . . or would they? Alayne wasn’t so sure about any of them.

On the other hand, could she really seduce one of the kitchen or stable boys or even a novice, Alayne wondered? They would probably be easier prey. All she would have to do was show them her breasts and lift her skirts; they'd topple her on her back like they would a common whore and it would be done. Most of them were quite young and the sight of a naked breast would be more than enough to get them excited on the spot, but none of them were as comely as she would have liked. Alayne sighed. _That is something_ Sansa _would have remarked on_.

She pushed the thought aside.

Maybe if she closed her eyes tightly shut while she was being fucked by one of those kitchen boys and instead thought of Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of the Flowers, or even Harrold Hardyng, it would make losing her maidenhead easier for her? No. Alayne knew it wouldn't. She knew there was only one man she could think of that could ever bring her to her knees with arousal and it was the Hound. It could never be anyone else. Alayne also knew that she did not want someone she didn’t love panting and grunting on top of her while they took her maidenhead.

Alayne bitterly thought for the hundredth time how she should have gone with the Hound on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, when he had asked her to come with him. He'd told her that he could take her with him, take her home to Winterfell, and that he'd keep her safe. But she hadn't gone with him, now, had she? And he had left her there when he saw her hesitate, after she had looked him deep in the eyes and told him “You won’t hurt me.” She remembered how she’d desperately stared at his tall frame and his large back and shoulders as he’d turned and left her room, her right hand dropping limply by her side while she still clutched her father’s doll (the last gift he’d ever given her before he was beheaded by Joff). The Hound’s last words to her were still ringing in her ears: “No little bird, I won’t hurt you.” The sad, resigned look on his face still burned in her memory . . . She should have run after him, should have begged him to take her with him.

 _It doesn't matter anymore,_ Alayne thought. That was a long, long time ago now, and when she’d heard that the Lannisters' former dog was dead she had gone up to her room, locked up her door, and wept bitter tears, wailing into her pillows until her throat was raw from it. She’d realized that she didn’t feel this way simply only because the Hound was dead; no, the truth was that she had been in love with Sandor Clegane for a long time, without even knowing that this was the case.

Then rumors arose that the Hound was alive and that he had sacked and burned Saltpans to the ground, killing and raping women and children. But Alayne had known that it wasn't the Hound doing this – not her Hound. Her Hound was dead.

 _When did I fall in love with him?_ She wondered. She thought it must have started right after she had first arrived at the Eyrie, when Alayne had started thinking of him often and had then begun dreaming of him as well. Perhaps it was his spirit reaching out to her in the afterlife? She shook her head. Don't be a stupid little bird now, he would no doubt tell her. _He's dead and gone and your dreams are only that, dreams. Stop hurting yourself_.

Alayne sighed deeply and turned her thoughts back to the problem of her maidenhead once more. There was another very unladylike method she could use to achieve her goal.

Randa had once told her, when she'd been in her cups and quite drunk, that she sometimes stuck things up her womanhood – the handle of her hairbrush or something similar, for example, but something firm enough that it could replace a man's hard manhood. Her friend revealed to a stunned and blushing Alayne that she was in the habit of doing so when lust was upon her and she had no man to share her bed with, being a widow and having some . . . pressing needs.

Alayne remembered how she had blushed furiously at that time, when Randa had gone into a very detailed and lurid explanation of one of her most interesting sexual experiments.

But Alayne would rather not use any of those 'methods' to eradicate her maidenhead. No, she needed a man. It would make the sting of betrayal that much worse for Petyr Baelish, and she would relish it so much more. Even if it meant giving her maidenhead to someone she did not love.

She had been walking for a while now, deep in thought, and she suddenly realized she had finally come near the fishponds of the Quiet Isle. The sun was already high in the sky, but despite the cool chill of autumn air she was quite hot and tired and therefore decided to go back the way she’d come before the guards came searching for her.

Suddenly, Alayne heard noises – the sound of someone splashing around in water – and she stopped dead in her tracks. The splashing sounds were coming from her left, though a tall hedge was blocking her view. Alayne couldn't see who it was from where she stood, but curiosity got the better of her; it could be just an elderly brother of the Isle, but still she felt the irresistible need to see who it was for herself.

Shoving propriety and courtesy aside (which would have made Septa Mordane quite horrified); Alayne inched closer to the mysterious and enticing sounds, trying to keep as quiet as a mouse. Sansa had seen a mouse once in her room at Winterfell, when she was about eleven, and Alayne remembered how Sansa had screamed at the top of her lungs, jumping onto her bed and shrieking at the little thing that seemed to her to be as big as one of the direwolves that could be seen in Winterfell’s crypt.

She remembered her brother Robb – no, Sansa’s brother, Sansa’s brother Robb – erupting into her room with his sword drawn, followed by her lady mother. Robb had chased the small grey thing, laughing like a madman when the tiny mouse slipped through his fingers and disappeared into a small crack in the wall. She remembered how Sansa had turned beet red in complete embarrassment, but that her mother had comforted her . . .

But Robb Stark, the one they called the Young Wolf was dead now wasn’t he? As was their mother, Lady Catelyn Stark.

Putting the soft soles of her leather boots down to the ground as lightly and as carefully as she could, all the while watching where she stepped, Alayne advanced daintily in the direction of the splashing sounds. _Be quiet as a mouse_ , she thought. When she reached the hedge she craned her neck and tried to peer through the supple, almost leafless dark branches.

At first she could only see a head with shoulder-length wet hair topping a broad set of muscular shoulders, which were connected to an equally muscular back that was crisscrossed with silvery scars. The man was hip deep in water (his hips looked lean and strong), his brother's brown-and-dun robes and his smallclothes discarded on the ground not far from where he was bathing.

 _He seems to be doing something_ . . . Alayne thought. She could see the man's muscular right arm moving rhythmically beside him, and his hand also appeared to be moving in front of him hard and fast.

Alayne's mouth opened in a silent O as she suddenly realised what the tall brother was doing, and she stood entranced by the sight.

She hadn't seen many naked men in her life other than her Lord Husband, the dwarf Tyrion. And he had only been half a man. She had seen her brothers naked, years ago when they were all younger, but they had been her brothers and so she hadn't dared (nor wanted to) look at their manhood – not even Theon Greyjoy's, her father's ward. She'd sometimes see Hodor roam around Winterfell as naked as his name day, but since he was a half-wit Sansa had always looked away in shame.

But she had never seen a man stroke himself like the tall brother was plainly doing now.

One time, when Randa was bedding Ser Jyles Hunt, one of her father’s guards, she had convinced Alayne to hide in the guarderobe and tried to show her how Ser Jyles stroked himself. But no matter how hard Myranda Royce had tried to get him to turn toward Alayne’s hiding place, Alayne never did see what was promised. All Ser Jyles had wanted to do was fuck Randa, and her friend had decided she would have none of it if he wasn't stroking himself first, so Ser Jyles had stormed out of her room and Alayne had seen nothing but glimpses of the man's nudity and his flaccid manhood.

Alayne didn't know why, but she felt drawn to the man standing naked with his back to her. A man who was obviously very busy stroking himself, considering the hypnotic rhythmic movement of his arm and the small grunts of pleasure she could hear emanating from his tall frame.

He somehow seemed very different from the other brothers she'd seen when she arrived on the Quiet Isle the day before. He looked very tall and broad, for one, and she didn’t recall seeing any brothers of his size in and around the septry.

Whoever he was, the mysterious brother was completely oblivious to the pair of eyes that were peering at him from behind the hedge, and Alayne wanted very much for him to turn around so she could see his face.

Instead, he rose a little higher out of the water, fully exposing his naked buttocks to Alayne's gaze. Her eyes opened wide and she let out a soft moan – she could see that it was beautiful, hard and firm and round. She licked her lips almost unconsciously at the sight, and decided she had to get closer so that she could get a better look at the enticing stranger in front of her.

As she made her way gingerly to her left to clear the hedge, she stepped on a twig that cracked as loudly as thunder during a wild summer storm and her heart stopped.

Alayne – and the man – suddenly stood as still as stones, like a pair of frightened hares. Then she spun around and started running, as fast as her long legs could take her, her heart pounding heavily in her chest as she tried to make her escape, completely mortified at having been found out – but her dress’s heavy skirts were getting squarely in the way of her escape.

Before she could make it more than a few feet, she found herself roughly tackled to the ground by the heavy man. Alayne tried to fight back against the very naked and wet brother that was pressing all of himself on top of her, trying desperately to wiggle herself free of him, keeping her eyes resolutely closed shut while his strong arms held her own pinned down hard over her head. Her breath was coming in short and fast gasps both from fear and . . . excitement.

Then she heard a very familiar expletive as a voice she had thought long dead rasped in her ear: “Seven bloody buggering hells.”


	5. Sandor 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to stay away from Sansa Stark may not be working for Sandor Clegane exactly as he planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks again to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire who worked hard to help make this a better chapter <3

**CHAPTER 5: SANDOR 3**

Even though the day was slightly cool and crisp, the sun was high in the sky and Sandor Clegane felt hot and sweaty under his brother’s brown-and-dun robes, having had to dig two more graves in the lichyard. The tides kept bringing in more and more corpses to the shores of the Quiet Isle every day – most of them sad casualties of the wars all around them, and the troubles from the Riverlands.

Leaving his shovel firmly planted in the ground by the last grave he’d dug, and wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Sandor decided to make his way back to the fish ponds to wash away the grime of the day. The dead could wait.

It wasn’t a long walk from the lichyard to the base of the island and before long he’d arrived at the little camp he’d made for himself while Sansa Stark – or Alayne Stone, as she was calling herself now – was on the Isle. Even though Sandor had been tempted to take a look at the little bird when she’d arrived the day before, he had stayed far away; for his sake as well as hers.

Sandor snorted. Well, wasn’t he soddingly bloody chivalrous, just like a buggering _knight_. The little bird would have liked that.

Making his way towards one particularly warm pond (the Elder Brother had told him it was fed by some sort of underground hot spring, so this one didn’t have any fishes in), Sandor quickly got rid of his brother’s robes, his shift and his smallclothes, stepping naked as his name day into the soothing warm waters. He sighed loudly as he sunk to his hips in the pond, and then quickly washed his body and his hair with the bar of soap he’d brought with him. The Elder Brother liked cleanliness, and Sandor had grudgingly taken to washing himself more often than he’d ever done before arriving on the Quiet Isle. “Bugger the Elder Brother and his need to keep everything all nice and clean,” he grumbled under his breath.

Raising his half-ruined, bearded face towards the sunlight and the day’s last rays of warmth, Sandor closed his eyes and tried not to think of the little bird, but of course, he was failing spectacularly. _What does she look like now? Is she still as beautiful as she was? Of course she is, she could never be anything less than beautiful, inside and out. Has she grown even taller? Have her sweet teats become rounder and fuller?_ Seven Hells! Why did he have to think of Sansa Stark’s teats right now? Sandor felt himself to be in all the seven bloody hells.

But it was too late; the sudden, arousing image of Sansa’s spilling breasts in those too-tight dresses of hers she used to wear back in King’s Landing flashed before his eyes. And even though he’d tried not to look at her quasi-nakedness then, he remembered how his eyes had quickly roamed over the little bird’s almost-womanly body when he’d saved her from her would-be rapists during the bread riots, telling her as gently as he possibly could so as not to frighten the girl further “You’re alright now little bird, you’re alright,” just before he heaved her over his shoulder, and brought her back to her cage in the Red Keep and right back into the arms of those fucking Lannister bastards again.

Sandor felt his cock harden at the thought of Sansa’s breasts and he almost felt guilty for thinking of her that way again. Then, as if moving of its own accord, his hand went down to reach his stiffening member and he started stroking himself. Slowly at first, and then faster and harder as his need for release started to build inside him. It had been such a long time since he’d touched himself, being on a bloody Isle surrounded by holy buggering brothers not helping matters much, but the excitement he now felt sent some wonderful shivers up and down his spine.

The pleasure he was experiencing while thinking of her, of his little bird, was almost already sending him over the edge of his longed-for climax, and he grunted in time with each blessed stroke of his closed fist over his rock-hard cock, while he took time to spread the moisture that was leaking at the tip of his swollen cockhead with his thumb, repeating the pleasurable motion over and over again before squeezing the stem of his shaft, making him shudder in raw, pulsating need. Sandor resumed stroking himself even harder, his chest heaving in his pleasure.

Feeling his release coming hard and fast upon him, Sandor’s hips suddenly jerked upwards, lifting him higher over the water line. As his hand rapidly pumped up and down the length of his engorged member, breathing heavily, he felt his balls tighten and within seconds his seed shot in hot white spurts all over his hand as thoughts of his little bird’s alluring body made him almost soundlessly groan his climax, pulling once, twice, thrice again on his cock to draw out the all-encompassing blissful pleasure that had just overwhelmed him.

He was cleaning himself up again while he was slowly getting down from his powerful release when he heard the loud crack of a twig being stepped on behind him and he froze. _Seven bleeding hells! Who the fuck is spying on me now! I’ll snap his buggering little neck in two like that twig._ Then Sandor’s pure warrior instinct took over and he quickly turned in the direction of the sound, seeing the tall figure of a woman with dull brown locks running away from him.

Despite his limp, Sandor rushed towards the woman and in a few long strides he had her tackled to the ground.

While just minutes before he had been busy stroking himself in the fish pond, now Sandor was crushing the woman he’d caught spying on him. She tried putting up a fight, wriggling furiously underneath him, but it was no use – for her, that was. He chuckled darkly.

 _She'll never be strong enough to wriggle herself free of me_ , he thought, almost snorting with laughter. Whoever she was, he had her pinned down beneath his heavy body well and good, and she couldn't move an inch.

Then he took one good long look at the woman and finally recognized the beautiful, small, heart-shaped face – and it was as if someone had just slapped him across the jaw while simultaneously punching him in the gut. Sandor couldn't help the foul-mouthed curse that came out of his mouth. “Seven bloody buggering hells,” he rasped.

It was her. His little bird. Sansa _fucking_ Stark. She may have brown hair instead of her beautiful auburn locks, but it was _her_ nonetheless. _Fuck_.

As she lay there, pinned under his strong and heavy body, he became painfully aware that he was naked and wet on top of her. He felt himself getting aroused again and his cock hardened, folded between his stomach and close to her nub. He struggled to his feet as fast as he could, stepping back slowly, stepping away from her. Sandor wanted to run but found himself standing there as if rooted to the ground like a giant oak. He also realized that he could only stare at her like a complete bloody fool.

Sansa had opened her eyes as soon as she'd recognized his voice and was now looking at him with tears in her beautiful blue eyes. Tears! Gods, he couldn't take tears. _Please, don’t start crying now, little bird_. She rose from the ground almost soundlessly, brownish hair dishevelled and covered in leaves and twigs, her dress in complete disarray, and her bosom heaving hard and fast. _The Seven save me, she’s even more beautiful than I remembered!_ Was the only coherent thought that next crossed his mind.

And then she opened her beautiful mouth and instead of the bloody chirping he was half-expecting to hear from her, she merely spoke his name. “Sandor . . .”

He was stunned. He'd never heard the little bird say his name before. Back in King's Landing she had always called him ser or Hound, Ser Hound or my lord, and for a moment he felt as if he was in a dream. But his painful erection suddenly reminded him that this was real, and he quickly tried to hide his stiff member behind his large hands.

He’d seen the little bird's eyes flicker to his cock just before he tried to hide it, but she had quickly focused on his face again, looking deeply into his eyes, obviously trying to avoid staring at the burns covering most of the right side of his face. But she wasn't flinching from him, and she didn’t look disgusted – instead she smiled tremulously at him, and he felt his heart break into a million tiny pieces as their eyes locked.

And then she started walking slowly towards him with her arms outstretched.

Sandor noticed that she looked even more womanly than when he’d last seen her. She'd grown taller too, if that was even possible. _Gods, but she is tall!_ Her teats had become fuller, her hips larger, her face leaner. She was truly a woman grown and this new Sansa, this _woman_ , was making her way towards him without any fear in her eyes. Yet _he_ was still an old, scarred, ugly dog.

He groaned almost painfully when she tentatively tried to wrap her arms around him in a hug. He felt her tremble, and then she started to sob. “I thought you were dead,” she said, tears flowing freely from her eyes and onto his chest. The only thing he could think just then was that he couldn't be wetter even if he wanted to.

Sandor didn't know what to do or how to react so he did the only thing he knew to do – he snarled at her. “What do you think you're doing, little bird? Is this how a _lady_ behaves now? Leering at naked men while they bathe and pleasure themselves in private?” He rasped angrily. “And then you go ahead and hug them while they’re naked as their bloody name day?” He felt himself glare hard at her.

Sandor could see the confusion and then the look of hurt play across Sansa's beautiful features. Her lips quivered.

He suddenly felt like a complete and utter bastard.

“I- I only- I didn't know it was you . . . I- I'm so happy to see you are alive, Ser. . . Sandor. I thought you were dead. Everyone thinks you're dead or a craven who rapes women and children,” Sansa spoke in no more than a whisper, tears now in her voice as well as her eyes.

 _Oh Gods_ , he groaned inwardly. _Please, please tell me you never believed any of that of me, little bird._ Then, without a word, Sandor turned on his heels and purposefully returned to the fish pond to retrieve his robes and smallclothes to cover himself with, not caring one whit that Sansa Stark had now an unimpeachable view of his entire backside – including his arse.

At least she could no longer see his hardened cock, though it had thankfully started to soften.

After slipping into his brother’s robes, he walked back towards her, this time trying to keep his temper in check. He was feeling like shit after the way he'd just spoken to her. “What are you doing here, little bird? Shouldn't you be in the septry or in your cottage?” His voice had become somewhat gentler, yet he still glowered at her.

“You . . . you knew I was here?” she muttered almost inaudibly. Her eyes had once again fallen back to the ground and her hands were playing with her dress by trying to smooth the creases made during their unequal struggle on the mossy ground, picking nervously at the twigs covering her dress and tossing them to the ground.

“Yes,” Sandor simply said.

“And . . . were you going to come and see me?” She still didn't look at him even as she asked this. Her head was lowered down, but he could see how her eyes were shyly looking up at him before looking back down again, her cheeks flushed red.

Sandor shifted uneasily on his feet. “No,” was all he could say, looking away from her.

The Elder Brother had told him to stay away from Sansa Stark. She belonged to the Hound's past, as he’d so _kindly_ explained to him. At first, Sandor had no intention whatsoever to stay away from the girl, but after some careful thinking he’d come to see the Elder Brother's point: The little bird _did_ belong to the Hound's past, and the Hound was dead and buried.

Well, at least where it concerned _him_. This was why he'd stayed away from the septry, the cloister and the stable area and had slept out here near the fish ponds – to avoid Sansa at all costs, which he had managed to do until she stumbled upon him. _Great plan,_ he thought. _I should have left the Quiet Isle when I could, before she made her way here_.

Staying away from Sansa Stark had been the hardest thing he'd had to do in his entire life – well, after surviving having his face shoved into a brazier by his damned monster of a brother, that is, and fighting his way through the Battle of the Blackwater’s wildfire. But fighting and killing were _nothing_ compared to the agony he had felt as he did his best to avoid her. But now she was here, standing in front of him, almost pleading with him. _You buggering Gods, are you laughing your arses off now?_ Sandor didn’t really care for nor kept to any gods. He did not believe in any of them very much. After all, what gods would make a monster such as his brother Gregor? Or a half-wit like Lollys Stokeworth? _Or an ugly shit of a dwarf like Tyrion Lannister?_

“Are you a holy brother now?” she asked him, her voice still barely audible.

“Not taken my vows yet, but might be I'll take them soon. In fact, should be any day now,” he lied. Seven bleeding hells, how he hated liars, yet here he was, turning into one again. It wasn’t the first time he’d lied to save the little bird’s life. He remembered how he’d saved the girl from what would have been one more painful beating from that fucking Ser Meryn Trant on King Joffrey’s name day – long ago now. The girl had wanted to save that fool _Ser_ Dontos’ life by telling the boy king how it would be bad luck to kill a man on his name day.

Sandor recalled how he could only see the back of Joffrey’s little blond shit-head, but he could clearly see the panic in the little bird’s beautiful blue eyes before she tried to save herself with that lie.

“What kind of stupid peasant superstition – ” Joffrey had spat back at Sansa before Sandor interrupted him.

“The girl is right. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year,” Sandor had backed Sansa’s lie with one of his own. The only thing he had cared about in that instant was to save her from that beating, and for the tiniest moment their eyes had locked, and Sandor had suddenly gone almost flustered (of all things! Must have been the heat: It was stifling that day as he recalled) over their very brief instant of shared _something_ , maybe? Might be. He knew that for a few seconds his pulse had suddenly quickened. Then Sansa had turned her head away again, no longer looking at him while he had heaved a sigh of relief.

But right now, he could see the sadness play across Sansa's blue eyes and her face at his false admission. _Almost truthful words, but they can't be helped. It's for her own good_ , he tried to tell himself. Looking at her, he could feel himself starting to waver, feel this sudden unnatural urge to hold her in his arms, wanting more than anything to tell her that everything was going to be alright. _The Others take me, why is Sansa Stark making me feel this way?_ Resigning himself to hurting the little bird for her own good, Sandor acted quickly.

He grabbed Sansa’s arm roughly, causing her to yelp in pain. “What are you doing?” she cried.

“Taking you back to your cage, little bird,” he rasped, suddenly annoyed.


	6. Sansa 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor doesn't react well to Sansa's presence on the Quiet Isle while Randa puts some events in motion to help Sansa lose her maidenhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm forever grateful to my super awesome Beta girloficenfire for helping me again with this chapter <3<3

**CHAPTER 6: SANSA 3**

Alayne didn't say a single word the entire time Sandor was dragging her back to her cottage besides the small sounds of pain that occasionally escaped her lips. Sounds of pain he didn’t seem to hear or notice. His fingers dug painfully into her left arm and she found herself wincing and glancing sideways at the ruined right side of his burnt face. She could see the muscles of his jaw working underneath his thick beard, clenching hard; he looked truly furious.

He had called her 'little bird' earlier, a nickname he had used back in King’s Landing – back when she had been Sansa Stark. She tried to tell herself that she was Alayne Stone now, Lord Petyr Baelish’s bastard born daughter, so it didn't really matter – but no, she _was_ Sansa Stark . . .

It was suddenly all so confusing.

She had been so happy and relieved to see the Hound was alive. She wanted to hold him to her and never let him go again . . . wanted to be so close to him that she would feel herself melt into him . . .  wanted him to hold her in his arms with an urgency that felt both overwhelming and overpowering.

The man she so desperately loved and needed was alive and suddenly that was all that mattered to her. Not ruining Petyr's schemes, not avoiding a marriage to Harry the Heir . . . nothing and no one but him. _Sandor._

But he had snarled at her and then he’d made it very clear that _he_ wasn't happy to see _her_.

And yet, she had felt and seen his erect member when he clambered back to his feet after holding her to the ground, pressing his massive, naked, wet body over hers while she’d squirmed helplessly underneath him. _He was already aroused and hard when he pinned you down to the ground, you stupid girl – he’d been stroking himself just seconds before_ , Alayne thought bitterly. _And he didn't even know that it was_ you _lying beneath him._

Still, when Alayne – no, Sansa – had felt his hard manhood pressing almost painfully against her nub . . . when she heard the man’s voice and realized that it was _him_ lying heavily on top of her . . . she'd suddenly felt a dull ache thump between her legs, and a rush of wetness had dampened her smallclothes and her thighs. It took all of her self-control not to grind herself wantonly against him . . . but he had scrambled off of her as soon as he'd realized who she was, as if she was a diseased whore or someone equally foul. Sansa bit down hard on her lower lip to fight off tears that rapidly threatened to choke her up and make her sob, drawing blood as she did so.

And now it was King's Landing all over again, with the Hound taking her back to her room in one of the women's cottages on the Quiet Isle, just like he’d often taken her back to her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast. Except now Sandor was rougher with her more than he was gentle.

As soon as they’d arrived at her cottage door, he then left her there without a word, stalking away from her – and she realized with a pang that he was limping badly with his left leg, yet still managing to get away from her as fast as he possibly could.

Sansa's heart sank.

*****

As soon as she was back in her room Sansa told Randa – who’d patiently waited for her young friend to return – everything, crying her heart out all the while. Her friend simply stood still and silent, her arms wrapped tight around Sansa's trembling shoulders in support for her friend while she told her the entire tale. From Winterfell to King's Landing, of Joffrey's cruelty and malice and Sandor's protection of her, even Sandor’s offer to take her away with him on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater and her unwitting refusal. She told of her forced wedding to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, of her own family’s horrific deaths followed soon by Joffrey’s, her escape from King’s Landing and how she learned of Petyr Baelish’s master web of schemes.

Eventually, Sansa stopped talking and crying; she sniffled, wringing her hands over her leaves and twig-covered dress. Finally she stilled, waiting for Randa to say something back, biting her lower lip nervously in anticipation. _Now Randa finally knows who I truly am. She knows that I am Sansa Stark in truth, and that I am my brother Robb’s likely heir, the Queen in the North. But to a north in ruins, just like Winterfell is a ruin._ Still, it felt so good to have the truth finally revealed. She had been living in a deep web of lies as Alayne Stone for so long that being Sansa Stark again felt utterly strange to her. She also worried about what Randa would say to the stunning revelations she all but unburdened herself of on her best friend.

“Do you love this . . . this man, Sandor Clegane, Sansa?” were Randa's first slow words. “I’ve heard of the man, of course. He was King Joffrey’s former faithful dog before he turned craven and fled King’s Landing. Is he the man you truly want?”

Sansa slowly nodded her assent and whispered “Yes, but that’s not what really happened, he is no craven, he’s the bravest man I’ve ever known,” she said though at the moment it seemed stupid and foolish on her part. She suddenly felt like she was the stupid girl she'd been in King's Landing all over again, believing in true knights and chivalrous princes and chaste kisses and chirping her courtesies, just as the Hound used to accuse her of doing. _And he was right about everything_ , she thought bitterly again.

Of course, that had been before Joffrey took everything and everyone she loved away from her, starting with her direwolf Lady, and then with her father, Lord Eddard Stark. _And Arya? What happened to my little sister? Where is she?_

That was before the Hound had hammered into her the harsh truths about those ‘true’ knights and lords and ladies. “There are no true knights,” he had once bluntly told her. “No more than there are gods.” She still believed in the old gods, though, but Sansa no longer believed in true knights, or lords, or in princes and kings – or queens, for that matter.

Sansa looked at her friend again. Randa seemed to think everything through at least a few times; it seemed an eternity before she spoke again. “And you are also telling me that you need to get rid of your maidenhead in order to derail Littlefinger's plans, am I right?”

Sansa nodded once more, looking intently at Randa.

“Then it is very simple, Sansa. You need to seduce this man, Sandor Clegane, and have _him_ take your maidenhead. Then you will also find out how he truly feels about you. From what you have told me, he is not the type of man who will openly declare that he is in love with you, but I have an inkling that this may be the case.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t tell me of his feelings,” Sansa agreed. “You . . . you think that he is? In love with me, I mean? I- I never noticed.”

“Sansa, you told me this man, one of the Seven Kingdoms’ fiercest warriors alive turned against his own masters and went to your room that night to take you away in the midst of a raging battle, surrounded by wildfire, to keep you safe from that bastard king and his family. Of course he is in love with you!” Randa assured her, squeezing her hand.

“Are you quite certain of this? He was so angry all the time back in King’s Landing, so hateful, and when he spoke to me his words were always harsh even though they were truthful . . . and how will I go about doing that, seducing him? I . . . I've no idea how to seduce a man.” Sansa knew that she sounded defeated already. Randa had told Alayne many things about how to seduce a man, but her own few feeble attempts, spurred on by Randa and Mya Stone at the Gates of the Moon, had ended rather disastrously.

She shuddered when she remembered how Alayne’s attempts to seduce Ser Martyn Wainright – a young and very comely hedge knight with wavy chestnut hair, deep emerald eyes, and a full beard belying his youth, who had come to the Gates of the Moon to offer his services to Petyr Baelish, the Lord Protector of the Vale – had ended with her running away shrieking when he had shoved his hand roughly underneath her woollen dress, in between her legs. The sound of his laughter as she'd run out of the kitchen pantry had seemed to follow her all the way back to her bedchamber. _The Hound was right about knights; Ser Martyn was no true knight. Just like Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount were no true knights either. Yet Sandor was the truest one of them all, even if he hated them because of his awful brother, Ser Gregor._

Randa laughed and kissed her friend on the cheek. “My dear, sweet Sansa . . . I believe you can leave that part to me.” Then she added conspiratorially, “I think I have a plan.”

Sansa gave her friend a tearful smile.

*****

In the end, Randa asked the silent brothers for a wooden bathtub (it was made of smoothed down driftwood, much like most of the furniture on the Quiet Isle) to be brought to the cottage, so that Sansa could bathe and wash away the morning’s mortifying exploration of her maidenhood and the grime of the day. The Elder Brother acquiesced to Randa's rather commanding request that brooked no refusal, and the tub was brought to Sansa's room and filled with hot steaming water in which Randa sprinkled some rose petals that she had plucked from the gardens' winter rose bushes.

Then she had the straw from Sansa's bed replaced, the sheets and pillows changed, and some fresh new furs added. When it was all done Randa looked over the tidiness of the room appreciatively, smiled at Sansa, and told her to strip and step into the bath and start scrubbing and washing herself.

Sansa obeyed without argument, divesting herself of her dress, bodice, shift and smallclothes before sinking into the hot soothing waters of the tub down to her neck, dipping her head backwards into the water to wet her hair; it felt so good after today's events to soak into the hot fragrant water and to wash away the dirt and sadness of the day, her mind replaying her earlier encounter with Sandor.

Randa made sure that there was a small fire burning and even put some beeswax candles here and there to give the room a golden glow. “Don’t light too many candles in the room,” Sansa told her. She knew how the Hound was afraid of fire but she kept his secret to herself. She clearly remembered how Sandor had admitted as much to her on that fateful night during the Battle of the Blackwater when the wildfire was raging all around them and he told her he was going “Somewhere that isn’t burning.”

Randa finished the preparations by placing a washbasin full of fresh water and some clean cloths on the room's only small table.

Sansa was anxious about Randa's seduction plan, especially since she had no idea what it actually included as her friend was keeping silent and secretive on the subject. Sansa knew that Sandor Clegane had been a man of the world before ending up on the Quiet Isle amongst the silent brothers – he’d been a hard man with a hard man's needs with a hard man’s life, a man who must have taken many whores in his life if one took the castle gossip back in King's Landing into account. She blushed as she remembered how he had once told her that all a man needed – especially when his blood was up after the heat of battle – was a flagon of sour red and a woman.

 _What interest would the Hound have in a proper lady like Sansa Stark_? She thought bitterly. He didn't care for lords and ladies; that she knew very well – he thought them all liars the lot of them. Maybe he would prefer Alayne Stone, the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish? Maybe she would be more to his liking? She said as much to Randa, who quickly shushed her.

“Maybe you can try to be a bit of both tonight, Sansa. If Clegane is in love with you, then he is in love with Sansa Stark, but maybe a bit of the bastard girl in you now will help in seducing such a man as him.”

Sansa stood still and silent, thinking on what Randa had told her while her friend helped wash her hard-to-reach back and shoulder blades, pulling her mane of dullish brown strands aside and letting it fall, wet and heavy, over her chest.

After washing and scrubbing herself clean and pink with soap, Sansa dipped her head in the water again and rinsed her hair well and good. The brown had faded a bit, and some red strands had made their appearance amongst Alayne's brown tresses. She hung her head back against the tub, while steam rose all around her, still thinking on what Randa had just said to her – about being both the proper lady that Sansa had been and the more common bastard girl that Alayne was.

By being Alayne, Sansa felt she could free herself from her more . . . conventional views on love and marriage. Sansa would not believe in giving herself to someone before being married to them – she shuddered when she recalled that she was still officially married to Tiryon Lannister, the Imp, and not to a man she loved, a man of her own choosing. But as Alayne, she felt free to give herself to the man she did indeed love. And that man was Sandor Clegane.

“Wait for me in the tub until I return, will you, Sansa? I'll be back in a little while. There's something I forgot to bring,” Randa said with a wink.

Sansa nodded and closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting, unbidden, to the memory of Sandor pleasuring himself in the pond earlier this afternoon. She had been so aroused by the sight that she had felt herself getting wet between her legs.

Her mind kept playing back what she had seen, how the Hound had been hard when he pressed himself between her legs, how she had seen his stunningly large manhood standing stiff in the midst of dark coarse hair. Sansa started letting her hands roam over her body, her left hand going to her left breast, slightly squeezing it with her long fingers before slowly pinching her nipple into a hard little peak, moaning softly while doing so as she rubbed her thighs together to help alleviate the pleasurable thumping she now felt between her legs with each of her hammering heartbeats.

Then she let her right arm move under the water, splashing some of it over the sides of the tub. She slowly circled her navel over her flat stomach with light fingertips before she brought her hand to the place between her legs which had already become slick, and blushed at the thought of what she was about to do. _No. Alayne wouldn't blush._

Sansa slowly let her fingers flicker over her mound and her nub and then she parted her folds gently with two fingers before going back to the tiny hardness nudged over it. Finding the right spot, she started making sharp tight little circles over it, rubbing it slowly at first as her eyes rolled back in her head at the thought of Sandor Clegane, the man she loved, trying to remember exactly what he had looked like when she had seen him completely naked as his name day and so very beautiful and strong.

He'd looked taken aback at seeing her there, and she’d noticed how the burns on the right side of his face didn't seem half as bad as she’d once thought them to be. She’d also noticed the few strands of grey hairs in his beard (and in his shoulder-length hair), which she remembered he'd already had back when they were both in King's Landing. She recalled the stubble of his beard going down his muscular neck, almost meeting the fine hair on his broad chest.

In contrast to his brown hair and beard, his hard muscular chest had been covered with fine darker hair which had trailed down his hard, flat stomach, and then further down to his groin area, before becoming a shade lighter again over his strong thighs (she had noticed an ugly scar there on his left thigh, all puckered and pink. _Was it recent?_ She wondered. _This was the reason why he limped badly earlier_ ) – just as it was on his strong, muscular, sinewy arms. As she pictured this, Sansa couldn’t help but recall that his manhood had been quite large and hard as it stood erect, jutting out stiffly out of the darker hair of his groin and how she’d licked her lips, thinking that she very much wanted to take it into her mouth and suckle on it.

Sansa blushed again (or was it the heat from the water in the tub bringing heat to her face?) as she imagined him ripping off her dress and touching her everywhere with his large hands and his long fingers, latching on to her nipples with his lips and flickering his warm, wet tongue around it, sucking on it hard and making her moan in ecstasy instead of hiding his manhood and stomping away from her as he'd done.

She thought about him cupping her breasts and moaning her name, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch her nipples, making them stiffen into hard peaks while his other hand would intertwine with hers to pleasure her between her legs, rubbing her stiffening little nub heatedly as she wrapped her legs around his lean waist. Sansa sighed deeply at the erotic, indecent, unladylike thoughts now playing in her head.

She could feel her excitement building stronger between her legs and down in the lower walls of her stomach as her fingers rubbed faster and harder over her nub; she even slipped a finger inside her moist self as her left hand mercilessly pinched her hard nipples, moving from one to the other, her sweet release just moments away while her hips started to move wildly up and down against her fingers, as she moaned his name, “Sandor . . .” When she was suddenly interrupted by the hoarsest voice she had ever heard.

“Little bird.”


	7. Sandor 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randa interferes and Sandor makes a decision that will change his and Sansa’s lives forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a massive THANK YOU to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire.

**CHAPTER 7: SANDOR 4**

Sandor Clegane was angry, mad, and aroused all at once. Once he'd dragged Sansa Stark back to her cage in one of the women’s cottages, and left her there by the door, he'd stomped back to his own cell in the cloister area, scowling at anyone who was looking at him askance. The other holy buggering brothers knew him well enough to stay clear out of his path when he was in such a foul mood.

He’d then shut the door of his cell behind him with so much force that he worried he’d actually broken it. _The Elder Brother will kill me_ , he thought. Then, _bugger the Elder Brother._

He started pacing the length of his small cell while limping badly on his leg, feeling himself simmer in pure anger. _Damn stupid bird_ , he thought, then, _damn stupid dog. You should have known better. You should have known you couldn't escape her; couldn’t escape Sansa Stark. You should have left the Quiet Isle as soon as you knew she was coming, when the Elder Brother said it was best not to see her again._

But no. He had stayed on the Isle. Believing himself to be stronger than he obviously was. Believing he could avoid her completely by staying away down by the fish ponds. How bloody fucking wrong had he been? Sandor knew it had been a mistake . . . but was it _really_ one? Was it really a mistake that he’d stayed on the Quiet Isle?

Deep down, he knew he needed to save the little bird from that fucking former Master of Coin Petyr _Littlefucking_ Baelish somehow, but the Elder Brother’s words kept ringing in his ears: “Remember what we talked about. It would be better for you to have nothing to do with Sansa Stark. My advice is keep to the shadows, stick to your grave digging duties, and do not seek her out. You know that this is for your own good.”

Seven bleeding hells he couldn’t . . . he had to, no, he _needed_ , to save her. How could any of this, this staying away, be for his own good? Or even hers for that matter? He’d promised her he’d keep her safe once, and staying away from Sansa Stark sure meant he wasn’t helping her or keeping her safe now, didn’t it?

When he'd first seen her, he'd felt his heart drop and swell at the same time. He’d ended up being more aroused than he'd ever been before in his life thanks to her beauty – her wonderful Tully-blue eyes that always seemed to drown him, her small heart-shaped face, her luscious lips so pink and tempting that all he could think about was covering her mouth with his, kissing her hungrily, making her bend to his tall and large frame until they melted together as one. Fuck him, but it almost scared him how much he really wanted her.

And then he'd gotten angry. At himself. At her. Why was he still in love with her? _Stupid dog. She could never love you back,_ he reasoned. _She's a high-born lady, you the second son of a minor house. A fucking killer. Besides, she already refused you the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, why would she change her mind now? You’re still the same old, ugly dog. She probably thought you were dead and gone besides, and never thought of you twice after you left her behind in King’s Landing for those Lannister bastards._ Sandor felt shamed again, and he felt his heart break into a million tiny pieces.

Yet she'd gone and hugged him. Seven bleeding buggering hells, the Others take him, the little bird had said his name, _“Sandor,”_ and _hugged_ him, while he stood there wet and naked as his name day, completely taken aback. And for a fleeting moment the only thing he'd wanted to do – the only thing his mind could think about doing – was to lay her down to the ground and take her, take her, _take her_.

Thank the Seven he'd managed to regain some semblance of control and composure over himself, or Sansa Stark would have bloody well felt him bury his cock so deep inside her cunt she'd surely have tasted and chocked on him.

 _No,_ he thought. _You'd never do that to her. You're no longer the Hound – you are Sandor Clegane, a man, and you love Sansa Stark, who’s now a woman grown. Remember when you said that all you wanted was for her to spread her legs wide for you, to have her wet and willing for you, to have her moan your name while you sheathed yourself deep inside of her? That's what you really want, you ugly, stupid old dog. And bugger it all to all the seven blasted hells cause you'll never get it._

His wounded leg now hurting like all the seven hells he sat on his bed heavily. His head hanging low, Sandor sat unmoving on his cot for a very long time, feeling completely defeated. Finally, he buried his face inside of his large hands and for the first time in a very long time, Sandor Clegane wept.

*****

Some hours later a light knock on Sandor’s door awakened him from his dreamless slumber. “Whoever it is, leave me be if you don’t want me shoving a hot poker up your arse!” He shouted loudly. Fuck, his head was hurting something fierce.

Before going to sleep, he’d quickly emptied a few skins of Dornish sour red he'd kept well hidden under his bed in case of an emergency – and this was an emergency. His breath now stank of wine and he was incredibly thirsty; and despite his nap, he was still relatively drunk. _I need water_ , he thought.

The knocking became more persistent. _Bugger them_. “I said leave me be!” He shouted angrily again from his cot, turning his back to the door and pulling the sheets up to his neck, curling onto his side on the uncomfortable bed. Still, the knocking on his door didn’t stop. Tossing his blankets aside in sheer bloody frustration, he staggered to his door – fully expecting to grab whoever the little shit was by his throat and shove him hard to the ground – swaying a bit as he pulled it open violently and snarled, “What the fuck do you want?”

He'd actually expected to see the Elder Brother on the other side of his door, ready to admonish him about seeing the little bird and being back in his cell, but instead of the large, square head with its shrewd eyes and veined nose, there before Sandor was a short and plump – but pretty – woman. Sandor looked down at her from his great height since he towered over her a good head-and-a-half. The thought made him almost angry as his mind went to that blasted Imp, Tyrion _fucking_ Lannister, Sansa’s husband.

Sandor became even more sullen before he glared down at the woman.

She was wearing a very form fitting gown, her ample bosom all but popping out of it. And she was smiling broadly at him. _Buggering gods_ , was Sandor's next thought. _Who the fuck is this woman now? Why is she here?_ Then it slowly registered. _She must be Sansa’s maid or something. Bloody hell._

Sandor knew that besides the little bird and this . . . woman, there were probably no other women on the Quiet Isle at present. Except for the dead ones Sandor had put in the cold, hard ground – digging their graves, that is. Women and children were never spared the evils of wars, something his damned brother Gregor knew all about, the blood of their own father, their sister, his two wives and of the Dornish Princess Elia Martell and her infant son, Prince Aegon Targaryen, thick on his hands – as well as countless others’.

But Gregor was dead now too, and with him, Sandor’s desire for revenge remained unquenched.

He remembered with frightening clarity the moment the Elder Brother had told him that his monster of a brother was dead, slowly killed by the poisoned spear of Prince Oberyn Martell – the Red Viper of Dorne – though this one had also perished, crushed to death by Gregor. Sandor had stood still, his face a well-studied mask of impassiveness he had finely honed all his long years in service to the Lannisters.

Then he’d gone to see Stanger in the stables. After feeding and patting his horse, whispering soothing words in its ears, he had all but destroyed the few empty stalls next to his black courser with his fists – while his horse had neighed wildly and kicked at his stall door in a frenzy that matched his master’s – breaking the dry wooden planks and turning his hands and his knuckles into a bloody mess.

The Elder Brother had treated his wounds while scolding him for having succumbed to his rage but Sandor had stood quiet the entire time, not speaking.

He felt like he wanted to kill someone, _anyone_. “Killing is the sweetest thing there is,” he once told the little bird and he meant it.

Oh, he’d long ago stopped killing people, as soon as he was brought to the Quiet Isle by the Elder Brother, in fact. And the women he’d killed as the Hound had been on the Lannisters’ orders, back when he used to be their faithful, obedient dog.

Sandor did not like to dwell on that part of his former life.

“Oh there’s women in the ground. I’ve put some there myself. So have you.” he’d once told that shit of a dwarf’s creature, the sellsword, Bronn, before this one saved his life during the worst of the battle on the Blackwater. He shuddered at the memory. It was such a long time ago now, and Sandor didn’t always like this new-found conscience he’d started developing the moment he had started falling in love with the chirping little bird.

Sandor’s thoughts were suddenly brought back to the present when the pretty buxom woman, with her curly brown hair and matching eyes, gave him a mischievous smile and said, “You must be Sandor Clegane, not-a-ser, if I'm not mistaken.”

“What's it to you?” he growled low in his throat. Fuck he was parched.

She looked pained for a moment, but then she smiled sweetly at him again. “I am the Lady Myranda Royce,” she said, but Sandor barely listened to her.

 _Why is this woman here?_ She brushed past him and entered his room without being invited. Sandor scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, and then repeated, his voice taking on a more dangerous tone, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Why, I am here to help you,” she replied matter-of-factly. She approached him, coming too close to him for his own comfort, and took a not-so-discreet sniff of him. “Yes, she did say you had been, ah . . . bathing this afternoon . . . but your breath stinks of wine.” She glanced over the sparse few things he had in his room and pointed out a washbasin that was filled with fresh water and to the twig beside it. “Brush your teeth and wash your mouth with this,” she said, handing him a small brown flask she’d taken out of a small pocket in her woolen dress.

Sandor glared murderously at her. “What's this? Poison?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. He could feel himself becoming angrier.

“No, you silly man, it's essence of cinnamon. We don't want you stinking of wine.” Unbidden, she sat down on his cot. “Hurry up! Time is of the essence here.”

Sandor looked at this Myranda Royce as if she was the craziest person he'd ever seen in his life. _Who knows, she probably is_ , he thought darkly, finally grabbing his pitcher of water and drinking deep from it, water trickling down the sides of his mouth and onto his robes. He wiped his wet lips and chin with the back of his large hand and stared at her hard while she looked back innocently enough at him.

Then he did as she bid him, cleaning his teeth with the twig and rinsing his mouth with the water and the essence of cinnamon. She then handed him his comb and though he scowled at her again, he grabbed it roughly from her hand and combed his hair, parting some of it over the burned right side of his face.

Myranda looked over his features and his burns closely, but somehow she knew better than to say anything about them or even to look as if she obviously pitied him. “Do you have something to wear other than those ugly brother’s robes?” she asked, pointing at Sandor’s clothing.

Sandor had a sinking feeling that for whatever reason, she wasn't going to leave him alone just yet. “I have a simple brown woolen tunic and some breeches and leather boots besides, if it pleases you,” he drawled, almost laughing at himself – the little bird would have been so proud of his sudden bout of courtesy. _Turning into a soddingly chivalrous man, are you now, dog? Just like those outstanding paragons of_ knightly _virtues like Ser_ fucking _Meryn Trant and Ser_ bloody _Boros Blount, or even your fucking dead brother Gregor._

“Do you also have a dark cloak?” She asked. Sandor acquiesced. “Good, put those on then,” she said, still smiling brightly at him.

 _Fuck_ , he thought. Then Sandor changed as quickly – or rather as slowly – as he possibly could, while Myranda Royce turned her back to him to give him some privacy. As soon as he told her he was ready she turned round and made to grab his hand, but the gesture caused a low growl to escape from his throat. Something about this sound – and probably his dangerous, murderous glare – made her think twice about touching him.

“Right . . .” she said slowly, hesitating for one short moment. “Put on your cloak and follow me.”

They exited Sandor's cell and the cloister area, making their way toward the east side of the isle where the women's cottages were. It was already dark outside and the stars were shining brightly in the night sky. _It's a beautiful night_ , Sandor caught himself thinking, then shrugged at the silliness of his own musings. He'd never cared about whether or not the night sky and the stars might be beautiful before – only when he thought about Sansa. He groaned, making his companion give him a quick inquisitive glance, but she knew better than to ask him what _that_ was all about.

Myranda Royce suddenly moved in front of him and stopped, making him almost bump into her. Then she turned toward him, a look of steely resolve over her countenance while he shot her another murderous glare. “Be good to her,” she stated simply, her dark eyes peering right into his own, and just then, he realized where she'd led him.

_Straight to Sansa's cottage._

Somehow, however, he’d known where they were heading the entire time. He’d _always_ known, had he not? That was why he had followed her.

The Royce woman finally left him alone and Sandor simply stood there, hesitant of what to do next.

The door to Sansa's cottage was slightly ajar and an orange light was spilling from it. He approached tentatively, unsure as to whether or not he should enter. But the temptation to see his little bird was too strong, and as he decided to let himself into the cottage the sound of soft moans coming from inside it transfixed him, making him stop where he was as if he’d become rooted to the spot.

Sandor tensed, his whole body on alert. He waited, listening, wanting to make sure that it wasn’t someone else moaning or that there wasn’t another man in there with the little bird. The latter thought caused a hot pang of jealousy to flash through him, and he only relaxed when he became certain that it was only Sansa Stark’s sweet enthralling moans that he was hearing.

He knew then that if he opened that door he was lost – that he wouldn't be able to resist her any longer. _Bugger it,_ he thought. _I’m going in. I’ve been separated from Sansa long enough._

He slowly pushed the door open, trying to be as quiet as he could, and the sight that welcomed him was better than he'd ever imagined – even in his wildest dreams. And he’d had some pretty wild dreams about the little bird.

Sansa was bathing in a wooden bathtub, and Sandor could see that her long slender legs were spread wide open underneath the water. Her knees were sticking out on either side of the tub, her head tipped back in total abandon, her white throat completely exposed. Her wet hair was still a dull, dark brown but he could see strands of fiery red hair backlit against the glow of the hearth fire and the beeswax candles that were strewn about the room.

His mouth went suddenly dry when he noticed her left hand pinching her flawless pink nipples and kneading her wonderful white teats – perfect teats that he could see bobbing just over the water line. Teats he had dreamed of for so long now, but the reality was so much better.

And deep beneath the water, he could see that the little bird was busy pleasuring herself from the rhythmic movement of her arm and shoulder, and the water splashing about the sides of the tub.

He felt himself getting hard, his stiffening cock already straining painfully against the laces of his breeches when he heard Sansa moan his name. “Sandor . . .”

Seven buggering hells, he was lost. He knew there was no going back. And so he stepped forward, his bulky frame filling the door of Sansa’s cottage as he replied hoarsely, “Little bird”


	8. Sansa 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is surprised by Sandor’s arrival into her room in the Quiet Isle’s women’s cottages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I bow down to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire <3

**CHAPTER 8: SANSA 4**

Sansa gasped in surprise and instead of sinking deeper into the bath water she sprang straight up from the tub, standing deliciously exposed and naked and dripping wet in front of a very aroused Sandor Clegane.

The way he leered at her now was exactly the same way she remembered him looking at her all that time ago in Maegor's Holdfast, as if he would just eat her up—the way she imagined him looking at her oh so many times in her dreams. But she wasn't dreaming now, and this was very real.

Randa had said she was going to bring back something she had forgotten, but what Sansa’s friend had _really_ meant to say was that she was sending her the Hound, Sandor Clegane.

At first, Sansa moved her arms in an attempt to cover her breasts and her lady parts in pure reflex—but then, her heart beating as hard as a war drum in her chest, she willed herself to lower them to her sides so that the man she loved, her beloved non-ser, could finally see her as naked as her name day as she had seen him naked earlier that day.

She could see the sudden hunger in his eyes as he looked her over, could feel his gaze caress her body slowly, making her shiver in pleasure.

Feeling suddenly bold, she lifted her chin defiantly and looked directly into his deep dark brown eyes, silently willing him to come to her.

Slowly, Sandor turned on his heels to close and bar the door behind him before doing exactly that. He paused tentatively for an instant before inching closer to the tub, his eyes flicking shyly away from hers for a moment, as they’d done on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, when he'd asked her if she wanted to come north with him.

On that fateful night Sandor had looked deeply into her eyes when she’d told him that he wouldn't hurt her—not exactly refusing his offer to flee with him, but not saying yes to him either—but then he’d slowly turned away, walked out of her room, and left her there to fend for herself in King's Landing.

Sansa had regretted that moment every single day of her life since, and she often played his words to her in her head over and over again: “No little bird, I won’t hurt you,” as she tried to remember precisely the way he had looked at her then, how close his face had been to hers, the smell of him—a heady mixture of sweat, wine, smoke and blood—all of which became somehow arousing to her.

She could see that Sandor was having similar recollections, emotions playing across his scarred face as he stood there by the tub. His eyes had moved back up to hers again, but they seemed to be waiting for her—for her acceptance, for her to acknowledge that she truly wanted him. Sansa knew that the fear of being rejected again was holding him back from her, from her arms, and she knew that she needed him, that she _wanted_ him. _If I don't do or say anything right now he will leave again and I may lose him forever_. Sansa felt bile rising up in the back of her throat. She knew she had to react quickly.

“Sandor . . .” she said once again, almost shyly this time, eyes pleading with him. “Please, come to me.”

Sandor's dark gaze seemed to bore into her very soul, and Sansa felt herself flush from head to toe. She didn't know if it was from the warmth of the bath water and the small crackling fire roaring in the room, or due to a sudden bout of shyness . . . or perhaps even from the excitement that had pooled between her legs . . . but she forced herself to openly gaze at Sandor’s face.

Still, he didn't move.

“What do you want from me, Sansa?” His voice was a dangerous, low growl.

 _Sansa? Not little bird?_ She thought with a pang. The air felt suddenly cooler, and she stood there almost shivering—after the warmth of the bathwater it was difficult not to do so. Or maybe it was her nerves playing tricks on her? She didn't know, but this time she didn't hesitate to answer Sandor's question. “You. I want you,” she told him simply in an almost desperate whisper, her eyes looking deeply into his, while they had suddenly become as stormy as a tempest. She saw him hesitate again over her admission that she wanted him, as if it couldn't be true. _Please, please believe me_.

She gasped as Sandor quickly crossed the distance that was left between them in two giant steps and swept her out of the tub with a deep growl, water splashing all over him, drenching his tunic and his breeches as well as the floor and the bed as he roughly laid her on it, making her cry out in surprise.

Sansa’s heart jumped in excitement when he leaned in heavily on his right leg, parting hers roughly to each side of him in order to shift his weight between her legs as he placed his arms on either side of her face. Then he lowered his glowering face down so close to hers that she could smell the cinnamon on his breath. _That's a change from the wine_ , she thought wildly. And the rest of him smelled so . . . _male_ , making her womanhood start to ache dully for him, a steady thumping beat that was oh-so pleasurable to her.

“Don't play games with me, little bird,” he snarled. “I'm in no mood for them.”

Sansa could clearly see the ugly reddish scars on the burnt side of his face so closely now, but she did not care. She wanted to see and remember every one of them. The intensity of his gaze was almost frightening but she slowly brought her hands up to his face and cupped his burnt cheek.

“I don't want to play games with you, Sandor,” she said, looking him deep in the eyes, unflinching. “Can't you see how I yearn for you? That I love you? That I _want_ you? What I want is for you to take me . . . I want to . . . feel you inside me.” She blushed, becoming the shy lady Sansa had once been for a few fleeting moments, before Alayne the bastard girl took control once again. “I have yearned for you for so long, Sandor, even after I thought you were dead,” she said slowly. “ _You_ were the man I always compared everyone else to. No one could ever come close to you . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper now and she knew that it sounded like a plea . . . she didn’t care for this, she wanted to sound strong.

“What about your Lord husband, the Imp, or your betrothed Ser Harrold Hardyng? I bet he's a nice little lord that one, all handsome features and full of courtesies, just the way you like them, don’t you? So why in the seven hells would you want me? I’m not handsome little bird, I’m just an ugly scarred old dog, and you sure won’t get any empty courtesies from me, only the hard, harsh truth,” he almost spat in her face.

“I don't want to marry Harrold Hardyng! I don’t care how handsome he is, I don’t love him!” Sansa spat back, finding the wolf inside of her. _I am a wolf, a Stark of Winterfell. The direwolf is my sigil, and you're a dog, my dog, my Hound._ “It's all a ploy by Littlefinger. He’ll surely have Harry killed before he can bed me because he wants to marry me himself (she shuddered at the thought)  and become Lord of Winterfell and King in the North as well as Lord of the Eyrie and the Vale—and so he can . . . so he can fuck me!” Sansa's eyes were still locked onto Sandor's and she was almost shouting now. She had to force herself to drop her voice back down almost to a whisper. “I have no intention of letting him achieve any of his schemes.”

Sansa then continued with all the love she felt for the man pressing heavily above her, “It’s you I want and need; you and your honesty. And you’re not ugly. You only think you are but you’re not. To me, you are the most beautiful man I’ve ever known. You keep saying there are no true knights, Sandor, but don’t you realize that you are the truest one of them all?”

“Don’t _lie_ to me little bird,” he hissed dangerously. “You know I hate liars.”

“I’m not!” Sansa hissed back, her white teeth showing in her anger.

Sandor was hovering so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body radiating from him. Despite the violence of both his words and her own, excitement was still pooling between her legs and crawling up her spine. Sandor Clegane was a dangerous man who could kill as easily as he breathed—he could kill her now if he wanted to—but Sansa knew that she was safe with him. After all, he’d promised to protect her once, to keep her safe, and she knew that he would keep his word.

“So,” he began, “What you really need from me just now is for me to _fuck_ you.” Sandor growled, the sound low and deep in his throat. “With the Elder Brother vouching for your perfectly intact maidenhead of yours this morning (Sandor had learned this from the Royce woman), you've sealed your precious annulment from your marriage to that shit of a dwarf. Losing your maidenhead to me will have no effect on your getting that annulment—only on Littlefucker's plans. Might be I'm right about that, Sansa?”

Sansa felt Sandor's big hand roughly grab her chin, as he'd done so many times before in King's Landing. He raised her head up so she would look him straight in the eyes again, eyes that were still dark and stormy and . . . _something_ else. “Yes,” she simply said.

Sandor merely stared at her.

Sansa was now desperate to convince him of the truth, of her feelings for him, and she quickly added, “When I saw you this morning, saw that you were _alive_ , everything changed. I knew that I only wanted you. I do love you, Sandor, and my desire for you right now has nothing to do with Tyrion, or Littlefinger, or Harry . . . or anyone else.” She noticed her voice sounded pleading again, and she worried that Sandor wouldn’t like that.

So instead of talking and pleading some more with the massive man that was hovering on top of her, staring down at her with such a hard gaze, Sansa did the only thing she could think of—she wrapped one of her arms around his powerful neck in a tight grip, lifted her face to his, and covered his mouth with her own. At the same time she roughly took hold of his right hand and shoved it down with a violence she didn’t know she possessed between her legs to her already wet and aching womanhood.

At first Sandor resisted her kiss, shutting his mouth resolutely against her pressed lips—and he did not move the hand that she had thrust between her legs.

But after Sansa started prodding his lips tentatively with her tongue, licking slowly over them while she moaned . . . after she showered warm open-mouthed kisses over the scarred side of his face and then moved to the unburnt left side, pressing wet kisses to his bearded cheek, she felt Sandor beginning to yield. Finally, he trailed his left hand behind her neck, up to the back of her head, fisting her long hair and pulling on it firmly but gently, tilting her head up and finally opening his mouth over hers. He parted his lips and let his tongue slide slowly against hers, until they rolled deeply against each other while they both moaned into the kiss.

The large hand that she had placed between her legs started moving slowly over her nub, his long fingers finding her sweet spot after a few tentative tries, making her hips jump against his warm, calloused hand. Sansa moaned loudly at the exquisite feeling of bliss that slowly engulfed her as he rubbed over her hardening little bundle of flesh and nerves in tight small circles, parting her slick wet folds gently and then slowly, oh so slowly, putting one of his big, long fingers inside of her wet and aching womanhood.

With a smug look on his face Sandor began sliding it in and out of her wetly again and again . . . but never too deeply, being careful of her maidenhead.

A loud moan was ripped from Sansa's mouth as her hips bucked against his hand. She arched her back, pressing herself against him, wanting to rub her hardening nipples over his chest. She let out a cry of protest when Sandor disentangled himself from her and gently laid her further back onto the bed and, taking his hand away from her womanhood (another cry of protest), Sandor stepped back to look at her sprawled naked beneath him.

“I just want to look at you, little bird,” he rasped again, his voice low and hoarse in deep arousal.

She heard him suck in a deep breath as his eyes raked over her body, following each of her womanly curves from her round firm breasts to her hips, stopping over the thatch of red curls that grew between her legs above her pink, wet mound. Her skin felt feverish and all goose-bump-prickly at the same time; she felt herself go red all over again and her breathing became ragged.

After he finished caressing her body with his eyes, Sandor shook off his boots and lifted his tunic over his head, throwing it at the foot of the bed. Then he slowly unlaced his breeches, discarding them by kicking them off when they pooled around his feet. Finally, he took off his smallclothes, almost ripping them open in one swift stroke, a low guttural growl rising from deep within his chest.

Sansa's heart was thumping wildly as she propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at Sandor's stiff manhood. His hard shaft was jutting out towards her, slightly curving upwards, and she unconsciously licked her lips at the sight of it . . . it was so very _large_ , and she suddenly felt both fear and excitement at the thought of him sheathing his full length inside of her. She rubbed her legs together in a bid to alleviate some of the dull ache that had returned there while she felt a rush of wetness seep between her legs and on the inside of her thighs.

Sandor groaned as he settled himself back over her. He was now on all fours and used his knees to spread her legs to either side of him, his weight settling onto the mattress. He lowered his hips against her nub and a jolt of arousal shot through her at the feel of his hard member touching her in such an intimate place, making her moan loudly and arch her back in excitement and anticipation.

Sandor then began to stroke his length with his hand while rubbing it over her wet nub, and she couldn’t help but feel entranced at the arousing sight of the swollen tip of his hard manhood appearing and disappearing rapidly as he fucked hard into his closed fist, all the while panting loudly.

She flushed again, and he chuckled.

“The little bird is shy,” he rasped, amused.

Sansa demurely averted her eyes away from him while he continued to pleasure himself, and it was then that she noticed an awful new burn scar on his left arm. Her thoughts drifted and she wondered what happened to him after he’d fled King's Landing. She had so many questions, and she promised herself that she would ask him to tell her everything—when the time was right. But right now, all she wanted was to see the look of pleasure on Sandor's face as he stroked himself over her prone body.

“Look at me,” came Sandor's ragged voice. It sounded pleading and so very vulnerable. Sansa returned her gaze back to him, her eyes locked intently onto the deep brown pools that were drowning her, making her gasp for breath. She slowly raised and snaked her hands up the back of his head, entwining her fingers in his light-brown hair, now panting as loudly as he was in pure lust and need for him.

“Do you know what you're really asking for, girl?” Sandor rasped into her ear before he gently nibbled on her earlobe, making her shudder in pleasure, his voice was hoarse as he slowly continued pleasuring himself over her.

She nodded weakly and he left his manhood to reach her right arm, untangling her hand from his hair with his warm calloused fingers, and moving it between them, over the trail of his chest hair and down his hard stomach to the patch of courser hair further down below. He folded her hand over his hard member and made her stroke him in time with his own which he’d wrapped back over hers.

Sandor groaned and Sansa loudly mimicked the sound, then she suddenly felt another rush of wetness seep down between her legs. _His manhood feels so soft_ , was her next somewhat coherent thought.

“Do you know what I want, what I _will_ do to you?” he asked her again, his breathing ragged, but this time he didn’t let her answer, only covered her mouth with his in a deep, demanding kiss that left her breathless and giddy. When he finally pulled away Sansa listened with bated breath as Sandor began describing—in detail—all the things that he was going to do to her this night.


	9. Sandor 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa and more smut. Need I add more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are dedicated to [the_moonmoth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/gifts) because what happens below was largely inspired by her amazing story “Endgame” which you can all go and read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/324061/chapters/521957?view_adult=true), if you haven’t already.
> 
> And as always, to my fantastic Beta for this story girloficenfire who always does a magnificent job. Love you girl!

**CHAPTER 9: SANDOR 5**

“First, I will kiss you, little bird. I will kiss you slowly, all over your body . . . from your luscious lips, to your long white neck, to your wonderful firm round teats and I will suckle on them, I will _lick_ them, grazing my teeth over your pink little buds. Then I will make my slow way down over your hard, flat stomach and down to your thighs, kissing them inside and out, and then I’ll move back up and nuzzle your sweet cunt,” Sandor rasped in Sansa's ear before nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck, making her whimper in need underneath him while he kissed and licked at her hammering pulse.

Then he hovered close to her face again, lips brushing slightly against hers—sending a wonderful jolt of pleasure up his spine—and making her moan against him, one arm braced at the side of her head while he continued to help her stroke his stiff member with his other hand.

_Gods, this is too arousing_ , Sandor thought. He could feel fluid begin to leak from the tip of his cock and he slowly brought Sansa’s hand up to his cockhead while he spread the sticky salty wetness over it with his calloused thumb, making him shudder in complete bliss. _Maybe I should stop stroking myself for now, before I spend my seed in the little bird’s hand_ . . . He released Sansa's hand—which snaked straight back up to the back of his head, her fingers entwining into his hair, pulling at it—and moved his arm to the other side of her head, pressing his hardness against her mound.

Sansa reacted by grinding her hips against his while she moaned.

As he was talking, he was satisfied to see Sansa nod and lick her oh-so luscious lips unconsciously again. _Fuck_. This gesture aroused him more than the little bird could possibly know.

“Then,” he continued, “I will lick your wet cunt, oh so slowly, like the good dog I am until you're so dripping wet you'll beg me to fill you with my hard cock. But I won't do that just yet, Sansa. No.” He lightly trailed the fingertips of his right hand from her collarbone down to her heaving breasts, and then he hesitantly cupped her firm white teat. When he squeezed it and rolled his thumb over her hardened nipple she responded with a throaty moan and pressed her breast harder into his hand.

When his little bird looked at him with wide, darkened blue eyes, Sandor realized smugly that her pupils were completely dilated from the deep arousal that she was experiencing. Her breathing had become more ragged and he could see the rhythmic swell of her teats as her breaths came hard and fast. Her hands had already started roaming over his chest and down to his hard stomach, so close to the tip of his aching cock again that he almost groaned, before moving back up to stroke the sides of his strong arms. Sandor had a feeling Sansa was still feeling too shy to go ahead and grab his cock of her own free will, even though he had made her stroke him just moments ago.

“And what I'll do to you next, Sansa—little bird—you will think it quite unladylike.” He gently rubbed her hard nipple between two fingers and waited for a moment to see if what he'd just said would sink in. After all, Sansa Stark was a maid, and perhaps this was not something she had ever heard of before, let alone ever experienced.

But to his utter shock and complete amazement her mouth once again parted in a perfect little O, a scarlet blush creeping into her cheeks. _Seven hells, she knows what I’m talking about. Fuck me._ For a moment a hot flash of jealousy overwhelmed Sandor, his mind reeling at the thought of Sansa’s luscious mouth sucking on some other man’s cock . . . but then he remembered Sansa's plump little friend Myranda Royce, and he somehow knew that she was the one who had filled his little bird's head with all kinds of dirty, unladylike thoughts.

He chuckled inwardly at the thought of Sansa _fucking_ Stark having dirty pillow talks with her friend, before it sunk in and sent an unexpected jolt of arousal coursing through his body. _Oh Gods._ He groaned, before getting lost into the deep blue pools of her eyes.

Then Sandor hesitated for a moment before lowering himself fully over Sansa, his body now covering hers completely as she spread her legs even wider to accommodate his large, strong, muscular frame, before wrapping those long legs around his hips tightly, her hands creeping up his back and over his shoulders, scraping his skin with her nails. It felt so incredibly good to Sandor to have his little bird react so wantonly to his touch, his mouth, his words . . . Buggering hells. He’d never felt like this before in his entire life.

Sansa let a small moan escape her lips at the sensation of their naked skins finally pressing fully together, and he once again began kissing her, his tongue fucking her mouth deeply as he shifted his weight to his right side so as not to crush her. This time his attention went to her left breast, cupping it first and then gently massaging it before brushing over her nipple with his calloused thumb. Sansa whimpered and Sandor's mouth became more demanding, sucking wetly on her tongue, making them both shiver and moan in pure arousal.

Sansa’s wanton reaction to his touch was instantaneous—she ground her hips against his hard cock and Sandor found himself groaning deeply at the sensation of his little bird trying to rub herself against him. It was making him go mad with pure desire and complete and utter want of her. “Do you like what I’m doing to you now, Sansa?” Sandor asked her raggedly, his head bowed low over her chest, his hair falling limply over his eyes as his hand roamed again over her chest, his fingers caressing and squeezing each of her wonderful teats in turn. “Oh, yes,” she whispered, “Please yes, I want more, Sandor,” came Sansa’s moaned reply.

Sandor chuckled. “Always the courteous little bird,” he said, before rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger again, eliciting a tiny mewl from her throat and making her arch her back into him.

Sandor's stiff cock was folded between his stomach and Sansa’s nub and it was almost painful now—he could feel himself throbbing, could feel the fluid leaking from the tip of it again over his stomach. But he decided to make good on his promise to her, and, letting go of her hard nipples, he began showering warm open-mouth kisses on her long supple neck. This elicited more pretty sighs and moans from her and—seven buggering hells and all the seven heavens—Sandor forced himself to move slowly back to her breasts.

The sound that came out of her throat as he closed his mouth over her left nipple, grazing it with his teeth as he licked and suckled on it, was so raw that Sandor almost lost his wits and pushed himself hard inside her oh-so-close dripping wet cunt. But the promise of a sweeter kind of pleasure with her managed to keep him in check . . . for now.

_Sansa Stark's flower needs to be plucked gently_ , he kept reminding himself. _Don't act like a wild beast or the excited dog that you are. You want to please her, to pleasure her. You want her to sing her pretty little song for you while you finally fuck her properly and slowly._ Fuck him, but that was going to ask a lot of self-control from him.

After thoroughly laving her left nipple, swirling his tongue over it as slowly as he possibly could, biting at it gently, he released it with a wet sound and raised his head to look deep into her beautiful blue eyes, panting loudly all the while, his heart beating hard in his chest, his pulse racing. It had been so long since he'd had a woman, any woman, and they'd usually been whores. He wasn’t used to plucking virgins—in fact, he’d never had one, not even one of those expensive virgin whores that you could buy in King’s Landing—and he was afraid he'd spill himself all over Sansa before they could finish. Maids weren’t his thing anyway; he preferred a good hard fuck, and perhaps that was because he'd never had the chance to love someone before . . . and with Sansa, his little bird, Sandor wanted to take his time.

“Is something wrong?” a breathless, worried Sansa suddenly asked. He could see that she was afraid she'd done something wrong, had displeased him somehow.

“No, little bird. I just like looking at you like this.” Sandor too was having trouble breathing regularly, and he needed to take a moment before resuming his slow torture of his little bird—which was also turning out to be a slow torture for him as well. _Bugger me._

He resumed kissing her, continuing to move down her body, trailing light, wet kisses over her flat stomach. This caused Sansa to giggle, but her giggles stopped and she moaned when he proceeded to move lower, until his face was right next to her pink wet cunt. He grabbed her long slender legs and hitched them over his powerful shoulders; for a few seconds his face was merely inches away from her nub, and he breathed in the scent of her while Sansa squirmed and panted underneath him, her hands tightening in his hair, pulling at it and sending some wonderful goose bumps up and down his spine.

He brought his hands underneath her silky-smooth and firm arse cheeks and squeezed them hard as he nudged her inner left thigh with his nose and then licked her, just like the good dog he was. He felt Sansa shudder in pleasure underneath him when he finally brought his thumb in to caress her nub, making her hips jump against his hand.

“Oh, gods!” Sansa moaned while her nails scratched at his scalp.

Then he closed in on her wet cunt, hearing Sansa gasp and moan loudly when he finally put his mouth on her. _Gods, she tastes so fucking good!_ Sandor thought. _Better than any honeyed wine I’ve ever tasted_. He gently parted her folds with his fingers and began licking her wet opening, flicking his tongue over her nub and sucking on the hardening little pearl of flesh there, just as he had promised her he would. Sansa bucked her hips hard against his face in a completely wanton reaction, all shame forgotten and moaning loudly, her arms suddenly leaving his hair. Sandor became dimly aware that she was now grabbing and scratching at the small headboard behind her head, making her whimper “Yes, yes, OH GODS YES more . . . _please_.” Making his pleasure soar even higher and sending more shivers down his spine; all the while making his cock throb harder in want and need of her. _Oh gods, I just want to fuck her now._ Sandor thought wildly. _If she reacts like this with my tongue lapping at her sweet cunt, how will she react to my cock buried deep inside of her?_

As a man used to paying whores to get his release, Sandor didn’t have much experience in pleasing a woman. He'd usually follow them into their rooms, paid them, get them on all fours, and fucked them hard and fast until he finished—and then he would simply leave as soon as it was done, since they wanted him out just as fast besides. It was so very simple, that way.

But it was different with Sansa. He wanted to _please_ her, wanted to give her as much pleasure as she gave him, wanted her to come around his cock so hard she'd faint from it. And he knew that he had to go slowly with her, building her pleasure until she was ready to let him in, which he knew was going to be painful for her as he would be breaking her maidenhead—especially since his cock was larger than most men's. He knew it would made it that much harder for Sansa to adjust around him.

So Sandor stood there with Sansa Stark's legs hitched over his powerful shoulders and his face buried deep between her legs. He dutifully lapped and sucked at her hard little nub, revelling in the pleasurable sound of his little bird's moans. He could feel her cunt swelling with her enjoyment, her little nub hard, and she'd started grinding her hips harder against his face. Sandor teased her stiff nub with the tip of his tongue and then pressed against it with the flat of his tongue, repeating the motion over and over again while Sansa's moans grew louder in his ears. Finally, he decided to change tactics.

Sandor began fucking the entrance of her tight sweet cunt, flicking his tongue in and out of her wet opening repeatedly before thrusting the tip of first one finger, then two, inside her entrance—teasing her, opening her up a bit. Her moans hitched higher, and her hands left the headboard to fumble jerkily with his hair again, pulling at it, making Sandor groan in pleasure. He suddenly realized that she was probably very close to her release—her legs had begun to tremble against his shoulders—but he had no intention of having her peak just yet, even if he wanted to feel her come into his mouth so very much, and taste her on his tongue . . .

“I think that's enough for you now, little bird,” he rasped hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Sansa looked at him with a hint of frustration in her eyes and gave a cry of protest at being let down from her little cloud of arousal and pleasure. Sandor only barked a laugh at her outrage. “There's something you need to do for me before I’ll fuck you, girl,” he began again, his voice low and hoarse in his throat, his own eyes glazed over with pure desire for her. Sandor realized that he had no idea how in the seven hells he was going to get through this next part without spilling his seed into Sansa's mouth.

Getting off the bed and moving back around to the front of it, he suddenly grabbed Sansa by the hips. “Come here Sansa,” making her yelp in surprise, and dragged her to the edge of the bed, pulling her into a sitting position. Even then, Sandor was too tall for her to easily reach his cock with her mouth (the bed actually being so low), so he took the pillows and furs and piled them up under Sansa's luscious tight arse while she wiggled to get comfortable on them and spread her legs wide to allow him to reach her.

“I think it’s time for you to suck on my cock, little bird,” he said hoarsely. He saw Sansa’s eyes flicker from his eyes to his cock and back to his eyes again.

“Oh yes, please,” she half whispered, half pleaded, making Sandor groan deeply at her words.

_Gods, she is so eager! Never in the Maiden’s teats would you’ve ever thought that such a proper, high born, courteous lady as Sansa Stark would ever want to give herself to you, the old, scarred, ugly dog, let alone have her suck on your bloody cock._

“Fuck,” Sandor said, the word escaping his lips when the realization that Sansa Stark was truly about to suck on his rock-hard cock—just like he’d so often imagined her doing to him all those times he stroke himself to release—sunk in.

That got his cock twitching as it jutted in front of him, stiff and hard as Valyrian steel.

Now that his manhood was of a same height with Sansa's mouth, her beautiful Tully-blue eyes had become quite round again as she found herself face-to-face with his stiff cock. Her lips were already parted in excitement and nervousness as she trailed her hands behind his thighs and made her way slowly up to his arse cheeks, caressing them slowly with light fingertips and then grabbing them fully with her soft hands. Sandor groaned raggedly at her touch, sending him into a sky-high arousal, making him almost want to roughly push his cock into her mouth.

“Open your mouth wider, Sansa,” Sandor panted as their eyes locked together again—he looking down at her sitting there naked as her name day on the bed from his massive height, while her head was tipped back, her white throat exposed, the blue pools of her eyes drowning him. She obeyed, lowering her head as he steadied his engorged member with his right hand while fisting some of Sansa's long hair with his left one. She seemed to understand what he wanted from her and so, after licking her lips once more, she tentatively brought her mouth over his manhood and raised her eyes expectantly at him, waiting for direction.

“Take the tip of my cock in your mouth . . . yes, like that,” he groaned again as Sansa obeyed and obligingly closed her warm lips around the tip of his aching member. “Now suck,” he added, and she dutifully obliged, making wet sucking sounds as she did. He let her suck on his cockhead for a few minutes before he started stroking the rest of his shaft up and down while she continued sucking on him, making the most arousing sounds and exciting him so deeply he felt his balls clench hard almost in molten ecstasy.

“Go deeper,” his voice had now dropped almost to a ragged whisper. Sansa opened her mouth even wider, moving her lips farther down his aching cock. “Now pull your head back, and then move your mouth down my cock again, slowly . . . cover your teeth with your lips, yes . . . that's it.” The groan that came out of his throat was so low it seemed to hum alongside his stiff member. “Oh fuck, little bird . . . this feels so bloody good,” he half moaned, half grunted, his hips now starting to move in time with the movement of her head.

Sansa’s mouth was moving up and down his cock, stopping to suck on his tip again when his rock-hard member was almost fully out of her mouth, before taking him so deep in her mouth that he felt himself nudge the back of her throat.

It was driving Sandor mad, looking at Sansa Stark eating him up so eagerly. “Now use your tongue,” he barely managed to say, gasping in pleasure. She dutifully obliged, swirling her tongue around the tip of his leaking cock, his fluid mixing up with her saliva, before she took his engorged member fully in her mouth once again, moaning loudly as she did so, the sound humming alongside his cock and shooting down to his hard balls.

It was the most intense sexual feeling Sandor had ever felt in his life until now, and it being his little bird, his Sansa, who was pleasuring him now with such abandon, made him want to spill himself deep inside her sweet mouth right this moment.

Sandor let her suck on his cock for a few more minutes, fisting her soft auburn hair and pushing her head gently down on him while he was stroking himself faster and harder, making him breathe hard in pure intense pleasure . . . but already he was feeling himself getting close to his release, and soon he gently pushed Sansa's head away from his cock. She almost protested again at the interruption; apparently she found this act quite pleasurable. Sandor put one large hand between Sansa's legs again and found her cunt was so wet for him that he couldn’t help a deep moan ripped from his throat.

“Lie back farther on the bed again,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper he barely recognized while he knew his eyes were glazed over with pure pleasure. Gods, he was so bloody excited!

Sansa looked at him eagerly “Are you going to . . . _fuck_ me now, Sandor?” she panted, her eyes wide, her luscious red lips opened and swollen from sucking on his cock.

“Yes, little bird” he rasped. “I’m going to give you what you want; I’m going to fuck you.”

Sansa hurriedly obeyed.


	10. Sansa 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's night of fiery passion with Sandor is still going on. Will she finally lose her precious maidenhead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my wonderful, wonderful Beta girloficenfire who made this chapter so much better as usual <3

**CHAPTER 10: SANSA 5**

All of Sansa’s senses were on fire, her entire body _felt_ like it was on _fire_. She'd never felt so aroused in all of her life; all that she could think about was the pleasure that Sandor was giving her right now, and from the look over his scarred features, the pleasure she was obviously giving him back. She felt like she was about to explode.

When he'd licked and sucked on her womanhood, her _cunt_ , she’d thought she was going to go mad with the amount of pleasure she was receiving from his mouth and tongue and then from his fingers. The dull ache that she felt was slowly becoming a deep humming that she could feel spreading from deep between her legs right to the tips of her fingers and her toes; she could almost see stars behind her fluttering eyelids.

When he had taken his mouth away from her, she had almost protested in anger . . . but then he had made her suckle on his _cock_ , as he had told her he would have her do, and though she had already felt how smooth his skin there was when he put her hand on him to stroke him, she was still surprised at the silky feeling of it in her mouth. She'd been curious about the little knot of flesh at the back of his cockhead and discovering all this, discovering him, had simply brought her to another level of arousal.

The intimacy she was now feeling with Sandor, the thought that this fierce, dangerous and feared warrior—the strongest man she’d ever known (besides his own hated brother)—was letting her do all these incredibly intimate and pleasurable things to him, showing her how vulnerable he could be with her, while he was also pleasuring her, was almost bringing her to her knees with pure desire and a deep love for him.

When Sandor told her to move farther back on the bed after having felt how truly wet she was for him, she knew that she was about to receive even more pleasure from him—the ultimate kind of pleasure, the feel of his hard manhood moving deep inside of her. Sansa felt suddenly anxious (he was really big after all) but it also made her shudder with pleasure and a delicious anticipation that made her body tingle all over.

Sansa hurriedly went back to the head of the bed, dragging the furs and pillows with her to pile them up behind her as she lay on her back and opened her legs wide for him, making Sandor suddenly give her a strange look before staring at her woman’s place. She blushed furiously when she realized that he could clearly see the thatch of red curly hair down there as well as her womanly parts, but she brushed these childish thoughts aside—he had already put his mouth on her there and knew very well what she looked and felt like. _Then why is he looking at me like this just now?_ Sandor finally broke the stare and his eyes flickered back to hers, making her instantly feel . . . safe.

She was looking straight back at him with heavily lidded eyes as he slowly made his way towards her again on the bed, and for the first time she noticed the ugly puckered scar on his left thigh and remembered his limp from earlier today and how he kept leaning on his right side, making her suddenly sad. _My poor Hound_ , she thought. Then Sansa’s eyes flickered to his face again. _You will have to tell me what happened to you my love. Where were you after you fled King’s Landing? Where did you go? Who did that to you? Oh, my beloved non-ser, how I prayed for you, for the Mother to gentle the rage inside of you. Did she heed my prayers?_ Sansa’s eyes bore into Sandor’s as if she were trying to reach out to his very soul just as her heart went out to him.

Sandor hesitated for a moment when he was close to her, giving her an anguished look. He wanted to make sure that she was ready for this, for him, and he was clearly giving her a chance to stop what they were doing, a chance to change her mind. “Do you want me inside you, little bird?” He asked, his voice a deep, low rasp.

Sansa merely nodded at him, giving him her sweetest smile as she arched her whole body toward him and moaned his name softly. “Oh, yes, please, yes. Sandor . . . Please, I want you inside me, I- I want you to _fuck_ me,” she blushed as she said those words. “I need you—I _want_ you.”

It was as if the man had suddenly come undone as a strangled moan escaped his lips. “Sansa . . .”

Sandor laid himself over Sansa and covered her mouth with his, quickly deepening the kiss and letting his tongue roll wetly over hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck fiercely, as if she would never let him go again, and returned his kiss as passionately as he gave it, moaning into his mouth as she wrapped her long legs around his waist and pushed her breasts against his chest so that her nipples could rub against his fine dark chest hair. The hair tickled her pleasantly and caused her nipples to harden into tiny peaks again, making her moan softly.

Sansa felt Sandor's hands slide to her waist, stroking the swell of her hips there and molding the flesh to his hands in a sweet, tender caress which sent goose bumps all over her body before placing his hands back on the bed to either side of her. Then he swiftly raised his hips away from hers, moving his right hand between them to take hold of his stiff manhood and press its swollen head against her achingly wet entrance.

“Oh, gods, Sandor, YES, please I want this . . .” she pleaded with him, her eyes locked onto his dark stormy gaze, feeling an almost overpowering need to have him inside of her at last that made her womanhood ache even more painfully for him.

“Patience, my eager little bird, I’m still warming you up,” he murmured against her neck, his breath hot on her tender skin as he buried his face there. Sandor then began stroking himself again, this time against her aching nub. The movement gave her full friction there, sending a bolt of sheer pleasure course through her entire body and making the both of them moan. Her hips bucked of their own accord at these blissful feelings; she wanted him so badly, had desired him for so long, that all she could think about was him finally entering her. She grabbed his hard, muscular arms and used them as leverage as she moved her hips again so that the head of Sandor’s manhood now suddenly slipped inside her wet opening, making her moan at the sudden intrusion of his hard member inside her.

Once again Sandor gave her an anguished look. “Sansa, little bird, if I do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine and mine alone,” he groaned dazedly.

Sansa shivered with delight at his words. She’d always known that she would be his after this night—she’d never had any doubts that she would belong to Sandor Clegane fully and completely from the moment he took her maidenhead, and she also knew that he would belong to her. _Wolves mate for life, don't they? What about a direwolf and a hound?_ “Yes,” Sansa said fiercely, looking deep into his searching eyes, emboldened by his words and by the need to be fully together with him. “And you will be mine.”

Sandor let out a guttural sound at her words and then he finally, slowly, _carefully_ , began pushing the head of his stiff member farther against her tight, wet entrance, all the while using his thumb to make soothing circles on the inside of her thigh before he moved it over her wet and hard little nub. “Just relax little bird, try not to tense, it'll go easier.”

The pressure was excruciating, despite how wet and ready she was. After all, Sandor was a large man, and she was a maiden—even if she had pushed two fingers inside of her womanly place quite a few times before, they were small compared to Sandor's large, hard cock.

She screwed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip forcefully, tasting blood.

Sandor seemed to notice and he stopped pushing into her at once. He held her chin between his fingers, making her look at him while the deep brown pools of his eyes searched hers questioningly. “Sansa,” he slowly said, worry showing in his voice, “do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she whimpered. Then, more forcefully, “No. Please, Sandor, don't stop . . . I . . . I want to feel you moving inside of me, I _need_ you in me.” Her hands went to his chest again, caressing the soft hair there before encircling his waist and then moving slowly down to his tight, hard arse cheeks, grabbing them and pressing him against her encouragingly.

Sandor's eyes seemed to darken; he looked at her for an instant and then he nodded before he started to push again, slowly, allowing her body time to fully adjust around him. “Fuck, Sansa, you're so tight . . . I don't know how I can fit into you,” he groaned. But he continued moving into her; she felt something finally give way and she let out a small shriek of pain. Sandor stilled immediately.

“Sansa,” he said, almost pleading. “We can stop now if that’s what you want. Your maidenhead's broken.”

Sansa shook her head, no. His mouth came back to cover hers hungrily again and he kissed her slowly for a long time, as if in an attempt to help her forget the agonizing pain she was feeling just now. His hands began roaming her body again, thumbing her nipples as he kissed the crook of her neck and then sucked on her ear lobes, sending a shot of arousal coursing through her body. Slowly, the pain began to ebb; making way to a slow simmering type of bliss, and Sansa tentatively rolled her hips against his. With a small grunt of pleasure, Sandor began pushing into her again, slowly, until he finally bottomed out and she could feel the soft tap of his balls against her. He was completely inside of her and Sansa felt so stretched around him in a strange mix of pain and pleasure, a moan was ripped again from her throat.

“Look at me, Sansa,” Sandor groaned. She obeyed him and looked deep into his eyes. She knew that he wanted her to look at him while he fucked into her, and this thought made it all even more exciting.

Sandor remained still for several long moments, not moving his hips, caressing her breasts with his large, warm hands, molding her flesh with them, rolling her hard nipples between his calloused fingers. This sent another bolt of pleasure through her body and she revelled in him kissing her, marking her with his teeth by biting her and sucking on the crook of her neck, trying to make her forget the way she was stretched around him and how badly it had hurt. Sansa responded to Sandor's incredibly arousing ministrations by letting out a little mewl and by putting her hands all over his body, following the hard etched curves of his muscles moving hard under his skin, twining her fingers in his soft chest hair, going as far down as the trail of hair that led to his groin area, making Sandor growl in pleasure at her eager tentative exploration of him.

And then he started moving slowly again, bit by bit retreating from her stretched out womanhood and letting the length of his shaft slowly slide against her nub, which brought her so much pleasure that she suddenly hissed at the intense friction she felt there. He then entered her again, little by little, until he was once again fully sheathed deep inside of her.

Sandor repeated the motion over and over again until Sansa fully relaxed and the motion started to feel more pleasurable. She let out a soft moan as she felt pressure building inside of her, and she ground her hips against his tentatively at first . . . then, feeling emboldened by the intense sensation that was slowly replacing the pain she'd felt, Sansa pressed her body hard against his.

Sandor grunted as he increased the motion of his hips and she felt him grinding himself harder against her, sliding wetly in and out of her, faster and faster, until he was truly fucking her in earnest. Panting loudly on top of her with each hard thrust of his hips, looking deep into her eyes, Sansa found that the pure look of bliss on Sandor's face as he was fucking her was also making her pleasure build inside of her.

All of Sansa's senses suddenly became acute, and all that she could feel and hear was Sandor fucking her, thrusting up into her hard and fast. His hard manhood was finally bringing her a type of pleasure she had never before experienced—not with her fingers rubbing her nub, not when she’d put them up her . . . _cunt_. In fact, his cock was hitting something deep inside of her that was slowly bringing her on the edge of her sweet release.

She brought her hips up against his in order to meet him fully as he continued to fuck her hard and fast, the slapping of their skins together ringing loudly in the room. She could hear Sandor's heavy grunts, could hear his breathing slowly becoming erratic. The motion of his hips, which had been quite rhythmic right until now, also became jerky. She could also see that his face was deeply contorted in pleasure.

 _No_ , she thought in a panic, _he cannot get his release now, not just yet, I'm not ready, I want to peak with him._

Sansa suddenly pushed hard against Sandor's chest to move him off of her, feeling his cock slip wetly out of her swollen womanhood, and for a moment he growled so low and gave her such a murderous look that she was almost afraid of him. Hurriedly she positioned herself on all fours, turning her back on him so that he was kneeling right behind her buttocks. She looked around at him and said “Please, Sandor, I want you to fuck me like this,” her voice a whimper full of need and thick with arousal.

Randa had once told her how much she enjoyed being taken like this, from behind, that there was much pleasure to get from this position, when a man's cock could get sheathed even more fully into a woman's cunt. Sansa hoped it was true.

For a moment Sandor looked bewildered, but soon his animal instinct took over and he roughly grabbed hold of her hips with his big hands, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. He pulled her back toward himself, sheathing his cock fully inside of her in one swift long stroke. Sansa let out a small cry at the sudden sensation and the pain, feeling as if Sandor was even deeper inside of her now than he'd had before. The sensation of his manhood filling her up completely, pleasurably, was now bringing her swiftly to the edge of her own release again. “Yes,” Sansa almost cried out, “Yes, like this, oh Gods!”

“Seven buggering hells Sansa . . . what are you doing to me . . .” Sandor’s voice sounded so hoarse and vulnerable it made her heart swell in her chest. She felt him fuck into her anew, slowly at first but quickly increasing the tempo, pumping in and out of her hard and fast when Sansa started to meet each of his thrusts equally, feeling her breasts bouncing back and forth in time with their movement, his rock-hard member hitting something wonderful again inside of her, making her cry out in ecstasy. “Gods Sansa,” his voice came ragged. “Do you like me . . . taking you . . . like this?” he panted hard, his voice thick with pure lust as he kept snapping his hips hard against hers. “Do you like that I’m taking you . . . taking you like the dog I am?” he growled low in his throat. Sansa could hear how excited he was in his voice, making her even more unbelievably aroused at the vulgarity of his words.

“Yes! Yes!” Sansa was now panting as loudly as Sandor was, and a fine sheen of sweat was covering her body. It felt so good, so incredibly exciting to feel Sandor pound into her relentlessly, his hard manhood slipping in and out of her wetly, she felt her toes curl up in complete pleasure, making her moan loudly with each blessed thrust of his hips.

Then Sandor suddenly wrapped his strong arms around her stomach and chest and brought her straight up against him, her back pressed into his chest and stomach while he leaned back on his heels so that her legs were straddling him, making her moan loudly as his hard member entered her in a completely new angle. His mouth searched for hers so he could kiss her hungrily again, the whiskers and his beard tickling her, his tongue fucking her mouth in time with his cock fucking her cunt as Sandor’s hands roughly slammed Sansa’s hips over his hard member, before making her rock them over his.

“Ride my cock Sansa, ride it like you would a horse,” came Sandor’s ragged voice, thick with pure arousal. Sansa's loud moans quickly turned to cries of pleasure as his hand found her stiff nipples again and rubbed them hard while Sansa rolled her hips over his jerkily, up and down, back and forth . . . like she would ride a horse.

Then Sansa felt Sandor's breathing become erratic again against her neck; she could feel that he was getting close to his release once more, but this time Sansa was ready, as she was now almost on the edge of her own blissful peak. 

She quickly ran her fingers over her hard little nub as Sandor panted loudly behind her, his bucking hips almost lifting her right off of him while his arms went back to holding her tight as he moved hard inside of her. With a few swift strokes of her fingers, Sansa let out a loud wail while shouting her lover's name over and over again, “Sandor . . . Sandor . . .” as she came massively around Sandor's cock, her womanhood contracting so hard and so fast that it brought Sandor right over the edge of his own powerful climax and she heard him moan her name loud and clear as he too peaked.

“Sansa . . . little bird. . . _oh fuck_!” Sandor gasped into her hair as his cock pulsed hard and his seed spilled wildly deep inside of her, leaking down the inside of her thighs. The both of them continued to grind their hips desperately against each other, trying to draw out their pleasure as long as they could, their moans mingling together in the darkening room.

With his arms still encircling her tightly, Sandor eventually went still, burying his face in her hair. Sansa could feel his heart beating wildly inside of his chest, and he didn't let her go even as she felt his cock softening inside of her, as she clutched on to him as well.


	11. Sandor 6 / Sansa 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa's night of passion is not over yet, and they both make a decision concerning their future. Will it change everything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my wonderful Beta girloficenfire <3<3 much love to her.

**CHAPTER 11: SANDOR 6 / SANSA 6**

Sandor’s release was so strong that for a moment he thought he would completely black out with his little bird hitched over his cock like that, straddling him deeply, her sweet arse pressed against his groin and the lower part of his stomach, and her back pressed tightly against his chest, his arms encircling her in a desperate grip.

He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, could feel the blood rushing in his ears. He'd never in his life felt anything as powerful as what he was feeling now with Sansa, with his little bird.

It was several minutes before his senses returned to him, but his breathing was still ragged and he could feel Sansa panting as hard and as fast as he was, her slender arms still clutching on to him, her nails biting into his skin.

He slowly untangled himself from her—which made her cry out in protest again—and laid her down on her side, then spread himself out next to her, facing her. Sansa squirmed on the bed to get closer to him, hitching one long leg over his thigh as her hand went to his chest, her fingers stroking lightly over his chest hair while his right arm went to rest lightly on her shoulder, his thumb caressing her smooth skin in small circles.

The room was darkening, the light now coming from the dying embers of the hearth and the beeswax candles that were still burning, casting a slightly orangey glow in the small room.

Sandor found he couldn't speak, couldn't say anything; a jumble of emotions rose within him, nearly choking him. So he simply lay there, silent, looking deeply into his little bird's beautiful blue eyes, drowning himself in them, while she slowly brushed strands of his hair away from his face, all the while stroking his burnt side and making his heart skip a beat. “Sansa . . . please, you don’t have to—”

“I want to. I want to touch your burns. Please . . . let me?”

Sandor didn’t know what to say to her, to the fact that she wanted to touch him there, so he only nodded yes, all the while holding his breath.

No one had ever stroked him there before, after he was burned by Gregor, and though Sandor couldn’t feel much of anything, Sansa’s light touches made him shiver in need for her again. She was so perfect, with her mane of brownish-auburn locks in complete disarray and surrounding her pretty face, her blue eyes opened wide as she looked deeply into his own, while her fingers caressed the burnt side of his face that he felt his heart was close to bursting.

“Can you feel my hand on your face?” she murmured while her eyes searched his.

He shrugged. “No, not really little bird.” Sandor saw a look of sadness spread across Sansa’s face at his confession.

“Oh, Sandor . . .”

He reached out to grab her hand and brought her palm to his lips, pressing a kiss there, startling him. He’d never done anything like that before but with Sansa, it felt almost . . . natural, somehow. “I sort of felt you touching me there, little bird. But I didn’t really feel you either, if that makes sense.”

She only nodded while her lips parted in a tremulous smile.

Sandor could see that Sansa was troubled despite their recent, wonderful shared experience. He kissed her tenderly as she dropped her hand back to his chest, pressing it over his beating heart. “Hold on little bird, we need to clean ourselves up.” He then rose to go to the washbasin, bringing back a wet cloth to wash away the seed and blood that covered them both. _Sansa’s maidenhead_ , Sandor mused. _The little bird gave me her love and her maidenhead. Fuck me_.

“You’re not a dog,” she suddenly blurted out, blushing for all her worth.

“What?” He rasped in astonishment.

“You asked me if I liked being taken by you like- like the dog you are.” Sansa’s face and chest became a light shade of pink again at her words.

Sandor looked at her and chuckled. “If I remember correctly, little bird, you quite liked it. Besides, you’re the one who got down on all fours and begged me to fuck you like that.” He looked at her smugly, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

“Yes. I did. But you are not a dog, Sandor. Don’t call yourself that,” she said, a profound seriousness creeping into her tone. He could see her face was screwed up in a stern frown as she stared at him.

Sandor barked a laugh and looked deeply into her eyes. “I promise I’ll try not to call myself a dog, little bird. But I can’t promise you I won’t talk like that again the next time we fuck, Sansa,” he rasped, his voice becoming hoarse once more. _Shit. I’m getting aroused again_ , he thought as he felt his cock slowly starting to harden.

Sandor cleared his throat then handed the cloth over to Sansa so she could clean herself of the mix of seed and blood sticking to the inside of her thighs and her cunt, eliciting another blush from her, before she handed the soiled cloth back to him. “Thank you.”

_She never forgets her courtesies, even now_. Sandor turned to the washbasin, rinsed the cloth in the cool, clean water, and washed himself up thoroughly; there was more seed than blood, the little bird hadn’t bled that much. Then he returned to the bed and laid back down beside her.

Suddenly, Sansa brought her hands up to the sides of his face, the burned side and the unburnt one, and pressed her swollen pink lips against his again, kissing him with a renewed hunger and passion that he knew was completely filled with love for him.

“Sansa . . .” was all that he could manage to say in-between their hungry kisses.

“Shhhh, my love,” Sansa replied, continuing to shower his lips and bearded face with wet kisses. Sandor was so lost in his little bird's show of love, her total abandon, that he found he could not speak a word again. No one had ever given him as much as Sansa had just given him just now, and it shook him to the core.

She edged closer to him again, wrapping her arms around his strong neck once more while hitching her left leg back on top of his hip so that he could feel the warmth of her cunt radiating close to his cock again.

The intimate contact made his hips buck against hers instinctively, though he wasn't sure if he was ready for more lovemaking quite so soon. He wasn't as young as he once was, being more than twice Sansa's age.

But Sansa's renewed moans of pleasure at the contact of her sweet warm cunt against his hip as she started rubbing herself against him had begun to make him hard again, and he knew then that he would do whatever she wanted of him.

*****

Sansa had already started grinding her hips against Sandor's. She wanted him deep inside of her again so badly that she did not care if this desire was both unladylike and inappropriate.

Sansa’s emotions were still running high, after having touched Sandor’s scars. His admission that he didn’t really feel anything there as she ran light fingertips over his burnt skin had made her sad, but at the same time it made her feel even closer to him. Making her want him even more—if that was even possible.

At first Sandor almost seemed to hesitate in reaction to her own wantonness, but after a few moans had escaped her lips she felt him stiffen against her mound, her own arousal and excitement pooling deep between her legs again. She could feel pure lust tingling down her spine, and her womanly place was once again wet.

She wanted him so badly that it was almost painful. _Is it always like this between a man and a woman the first time they lay together? I don’t want to be apart from him, I only ache to be his again_. Sansa truly wondered if it was.

This time she lowered her right arm in between their bodies as she rocked her hips over his thigh and took hold of his already hard manhood. Though she had touched him there earlier, his skin felt so smooth and warm that it still surprised her. “Oh. . .” she whispered softly. Her bold move elicited a groan from Sandor, and she felt his hand grabbing at her long hair again, fisting it, pulling on it lightly, and tilting her head backwards in order to cover her mouth with his and slide his tongue into her needy mouth, making her skin prickle in excitement. _Yes, please, I love you_.

She began to tentatively stroke him as she'd done before, and the stormy look he gave her made her feel that she must be doing something right. His eyes took on that glazed look again and she heard a deep growl rise from deep within his throat.

It almost made her come right then and there.

She lowered her eyes to look intently at what she was doing. His shaft was so large that she couldn't fully wrap her right hand around the stem of it, so she moved her left hand down and wrapped it tight against his member as well. Then she rhythmically stroked both her hands up and down his length, completely lost in the experience, until she heard him grunt into her ear in a husky voice, “Harder.”

“How . . . how much harder?” she asked, completely dazed by desire and want of him.

“Don’t worry little bird, you can stroke me as hard as you want, you won’t hurt me,” he half-chuckled, half-panted into her hair. Sansa obliged her beloved non-ser. His hips started bucking in time with her hands and he suddenly folded his own large hand on top of hers to help her fondle him in sharp, long strokes.

Sansa's lips parted in excitement; he suddenly stopped the stroking motion and when she looked into his eyes again he steadied his engorged member over her wet entrance once more, sheathing himself fully inside of her in one swift wet slide, filling Sansa in completely.

She hissed at the sudden intrusion of his hard member inside her womanhood again and bit down on his shoulder hard, and though he'd started slowly she could feel Sandor begin moving his hips faster than he'd done before, snapping them again and again and again against hers. _Oh gods yes! It feels so good . . . so . . . so right to have him moving inside me!_ She thought. Sansa moaned loudly with every deep thrust into her and she wrapped her arms over his head, bringing his forehead flush against hers as she felt his breath coming in fast and hard. Sansa covered his mouth with hers, her tongue already parting his lips, feeling Sandor yield into her kiss as her tongue started playing with his, making him groan.

This time he was clearly out of control, his body moving wildly, and that lack of control aroused Sansa so much that she knew her release would come much faster this time. She snaked one hand back down between their bodies to reach her hard little nub and started rubbing herself there, moaning deeply in pleasure at the incredibly intense sensation it gave her. Her pleasure coming both from Sandor fucking her hard and hitting that sweet spot again inside of her and from her own hand as she rubbed over her hard little pearl of flesh above her mound in circular motions—sending hot stabs of pleasure all over her body again.

“Sansa, my little bird,” she heard Sandor grunt as he fucked into her with something that felt akin to desperation. “Fuck, you’re so bloody arousing . . .” His voice was so hoarse and low she barely heard him, but his words made Sansa's head snap back in one jerky movement as they instantly brought her to her climax.

“Oh gods yes! Sandor!” she whimpered. “Don’t stop, I’m- I’m peaking . . . I- it feels so good!” She rubbed her painfully hard little nub even harder, sending waves upon waves of massive pleasure crash through her over-sensitized body. She felt Sandor spill himself deep inside of her, felt his manhood pulse hard as he roared his own release. He lowered his head to her chest and, reaching one of her breasts with one large hand, brought her stiff little nipple to his lips and started sucking roughly on it as she cried out both in pleasure and pain.

*****

Sandor's arms were wrapped so tightly around Sansa's sleeping form that he thought he might crush her, but at the same time he felt he could never let her go. He would never let her go again.

He was still bewildered by how much love and pleasure his little bird had brought him tonight; he thought that he might burst from it. He kissed her brow tenderly.

Seeing her here on the Quiet Isle, having her standing right in front of him, wanting him and loving him, and then finally having her all in the same night was almost too much for him to bear. He kept glancing again and again at her sleeping form, nudged warmly in his arms, finally realizing that it was real, that it had happened.

Never in the seven hells and all the seven heavens would he have believed that Sansa Stark could ever want him, let alone love him, a scarred old dog in word and in deeds. But she did. _No, the little bird doesn’t want you to call yourself a dog again_ , he thought, making his heart clench painfully as another sudden rush of emotion overtook him for an instant.

He had told her that after this night she would be his, and she had agreed, even staking her own claim on him. Then she had touched his burns, had looked at him with love, and he had taken her again. Now, all that he could think about—besides the pleasures they had given each other earlier—was how to make her truly his.

He knew that her marriage to that shit of a dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, was as good as annulled now. She was, to all intents and purposes, a free woman.

And she'd told him that she didn't want to marry that lordling, Harry the Heir. All he needed—wanted—to do now was to marry her himself. Even if he was only the second son of a minor house—no, Gregor was dead now, leaving Sandor the rightful heir of Clegane’s Keep. That was, if the Lannisters even let him return to what was rightfully his, which he doubted would ever happen. The Hound was, after all, a wanted man. _So am I, for abandoning that little shit of a boy-King Joffrey during the battle of the Blackwater, and escaping the besieged city like a craven_. Still, Joffrey was dead and so was Tywin Lannister. Rumors were Kevan Lannister was dead too. Would Casterly Rock now end up in the hands of Tyrion Lannister, who murdered his own father and had seemingly disappeared from the whole of Westeros? Or in those of Ser Jaime Lannister, even though the Kingslayer was the Lord Commander of The Kingsguard and couldn’t technically inherit the Rock? Surely it wouldn’t pass to that dimwit cousin of his, Lancel Lannister, who’d now joined the Warrior’s Sons! No, Casterly Rock would go to Cersei, he knew. _Bugger them all with a hot poker up their arses._  

He turned his thoughts back to the little bird. Sandor knew it had to be done quickly, before Littlefinger could get his grasping, manipulative, scheming claws on Sansa again. The thought of Petyr Baelish putting his weasel-like little hands on his little bird, trying his best to fuck her, made him suddenly go into a blinding rage and he started fuming, his jaw clenching almost painfully. _I’ll kill the fucking little mockingbird shit one day,_ he promised himself.

Then he struggled to calm himself, to regain control, and when he finally stilled, he leaned in to kiss his little bird’s forehead—which elicited a small contented sigh from her, making her squirm harder against him, which in turn made his heart soar. Sandor only hoped that the now-landless and title-less Lord of a minor house would be enough for Sansa Stark, the bloody Queen in the North.

*****

Sansa awoke in the middle of the night with the need to make her water.

She was so warm pressed against Sandor's sleeping form under the bed sheets that she almost didn't want to disentangle herself from the arm wrapped protectively around her . . . but it couldn't be helped. Slowly, carefully, she unwrapped Sandor's strong right arm from around her and looked at him with a tenderness that pierced her heart. He was laying half on his side and half on his stomach with his left arm thrown up underneath the pillow and his brow resting upon it, his light-brown hair shot-through with a very few strands of grey here and there (just like his beard, making Sansa reflect on the hard life he must have led after leaving King’s Landing and making her heart swell in love of him) spilling around his tranquil face and over the pillows, breathing deeply and evenly. He looked calm and peaceful, such as she had never seen him look before.

She leaned over his face and lightly brushed her lips over his. Sandor shifted a little and moaned softly at the sudden fleeting contact of her lips on his. Feeling bold, she traced light fingertips over the burnt side of his face again. His scars ran from the right side of his forehead, down to the side of his face and over his eyebrow—thankfully sparing his eye but not his ear—and then further down to his neck. Half of the hair on this side was gone, exposing part of his scalp. Sandor always brushed his hair over that side to try and hide the burns, but Sansa didn’t care about them. Once she’d been afraid to look at his scars, now she found them beautiful because they were part of him, part of who he was. She pressed her mouth lightly over his skin there, the feeling of his burnt, scarred flesh on her lips slightly leathery, and she felt her heart swell again for love of him.

Then she trailed light fingertips over the soft, dark hair that covered his chest, before moving them down over his stomach and then to his groin, noticing with satisfaction that his soft member began to elongate. Sansa smiled, revelling in the power her touch had over him.

Then she rose from the bed slowly, tossing the blankets aside, and made her way gingerly to the garderobe to empty her bursting bladder.

While there, she started thinking about her future—or rather, her present.

She'd claimed Sandor as hers, her own, after he'd claimed her first tonight. She knew that he was the man she wanted, the man she'd _always_ wanted, deep down inside. Her perfect knight in deeds if not in title. Her beloved non-ser. Sansa recalled how her father had once promised her he'd find her someone brave, gentle and strong to marry, and that was exactly who Sandor was to her.

She'd been so happy after they'd given themselves to each other. The feeling of his hard manhood sliding inside of her so overwhelming, bringing her so much pleasure—and her love for him so strong that she felt she would kill anyone who tried to get in the way of her happiness. Including Alayne’s ‘father,’ Petyr Baelish, if needs be.

But she also had to be practical.

She was ready to marry Sandor if he wanted her, but she wondered if the people in the north—her people—would be ready to accept him as the Lord of Winterfell and her consort as the Queen in the North. Sandor was not highborn, not even a proper lord, Clegane’s Keep being barely a towerhouse and on the Lannisters’ land to boot, subjected to Casterly Rock; therefore in marrying him she wouldn't be bringing a strong alliance to her ravaged north. And on top of that, he was also a Westerlander. But she also knew that Sandor Clegane was a much better man than Petyr Baelish could ever claim or hope to be, and that he could be the type of man her people would look to for strong leadership. It didn’t matter in the north whether someone was a knight or not. _Jory wasn’t a knight, yet he was more knightly than all the knights in King’s Landing_ , she thought sadly, _just like Sandor_. She needed him as her sworn shield as much as she needed him as her Lord Husband.

Sansa felt confident that her people would learn to love Sandor just as much as she loved him, that beneath his rough, tough, strong ‘don’t fuck with me’ exterior (Sansa blushed at those words in her head) he was a man of truth, also capable of leadership and of being loved and respected . . . _if_ he let the people in. She was sure of it. She just needed to convince him of that fact.

Because she had every intention of going back north to reclaim Winterfell one day, even if it was now lying in ruins. She knew she would have to go to Moat Cailin first and wrestle it from Roose Bolton’s grasp and move north from there. Then she would have to win back Winterfell from Bolton’s bastard, Ramsay Snow and his fake Arya wife of his. Eventually she would rebuild the Stark seat, stone by stone if she had to. _But I need an army of strong men to do all that. An army I don’t have, not yet_.

Sansa’s heart sank.


	12. Sandor 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Elder Brother confronts Sandor about the night's previous events with Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, my incredible Beta girloficenfire who was my lifesaver again for this chapter.

**CHAPTER 12: SANDOR 7**

A loud knock at the door woke Sandor from a restless sleep. He’d just been having a terrible nightmare about his dead brother Gregor who had become a headless, walking, hulking giant whose shadow spread over him and all of Westeros, and he found himself quite disoriented as his eyes took in his unusual surroundings.

 _Fuck, this isn't my cell_ , he realized, blinking hard, his eyes adjusting to the ambient light . . . and then last evening's extremely lurid night with Sansa came back to him. He suddenly remembered where he was and smiled smugly despite himself. _The little bird has given herself to me. I’m the fucking luckiest man in all the bloody Seven Kingdoms._

Until he realized that Sansa wasn't in bed with him, nor, for that matter, was she even in the room.

“Fuck,” he said, out loud this time.

He scrambled out of bed, almost tripping over a discarded coverlet on his way to the door, which he pushed open forcefully . . . coming face to face with the Elder Brother, who was standing just outside with a disapproving look upon his countenance, his right hand raised as he was about to knock on the driftwood door.

 _Shit_ , Sandor thought. _How in the seven hells did he know I was here . . ._ And then he thought _, Sansa . . ._

“Good morning, Brother Digger,” the Elder Brother said curtly. “I believe you slept in the wrong bed last night.”

Sandor glared at him venomously, but the Elder Brother brushed past him and stepped into the small cottage room, skirting around the cold bathtub, settling himself into the high wooden chair that sat in one corner of the room, pointedly avoiding the bed. “Close the door now, will you, Brother Digger? There is a slight draft and it is chilly outside.”

Sandor slammed the door shut without saying a word. He made his way back to the bed and sat on it, and when the Elder Brother gave him a strange look it dawned on him that he was still naked as his bloody name day. He fumbled for a bed sheet with which to cover himself, drawing it over his lap and his cock.

“I had a most peculiar visit this morning, from Lady Stark,” the Elder Brother said, going straight to the point.

 _Uh-oh. Can't be good_. “What did she want?” Sandor asked hesitantly. _Why in the seven hells has Sansa gone to see the Elder Brother?_ He wasn't sure if he was going to like the answer to that particular question.

The Elder Brother smiled at him curtly again before he spoke. Sandor noticed how the holy man seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

“The Lady Sansa came to me to discuss her . . . current predicament,” he began, looking directly at Sandor, who only stared back blankly. He wasn’t about to give the former knight the satisfaction of saying anything. He did not know what Sansa had told him exactly besides.

The Elder Brother sighed.

“We have already assessed that when Alayne Stone—or rather, Sansa Stark, as she has now officially revealed herself to be—came to us, she was indeed a maiden. Therefore, her marriage to the Lannister Imp, Tyrion, can now be considered, to all intents and purposes, annulled in the eyes of the Seven and the whole of Westeros.”

Sandor smirked at the holy man for a moment before once more composing his face into an impassive mask.

“However, it would now appear that there has been some . . . ah, further developments. Apparently, Sansa Stark is no longer a maiden, as she in fact gave her maidenhead to you, Brother Digger.” Then he added, as he looked intently into Sandor’s eyes, “As you are, of course, very well aware of.”

Sandor remained silent, unsure about how to respond. Part of him wanted to smile broadly at the Elder Brother's words, while another part of him only wanted to scowl back at the man. He was also somewhat angry that Sansa had told the Elder Brother everything without discussing the events of last night and their ramifications with him first.

“Yes, it's true,” Sandor admitted slowly. “The little bird has given me her maidenhead. What's it to you?”

The Elder Brother sighed deeply. “You were to stay away from Sansa Stark, Brother Digger. We agreed that she belonged to the Hound's past,” he said pointedly, his gaze boring right through him.

Sandor felt as if the holy man could make a whole right through him with the sole intensity of his gaze. Then he suddenly felt himself fuming with rage.

“ _You_ agreed that she belonged to the Hound's past, which, as it happens, is also _my_ past. I only went along with it because I thought that maybe it would be the best thing for her. But the little bird—Sansa—has decided I belong with her, to her. Who am I to refuse that? To refuse _her_? You know very well how I feel about the girl—woman,” he finished, glaring at the Elder Brother again. He was seething in anger, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Then Sandor willed himself to compose himself as he slowly breathed in and out.

“Yes, you love her. And she loves you.” The Elder Brother sighed again. “And I am actually truly happy that you two found each other again, though I assume you do not believe me when I say as much.”

“You would be right, I don't,” Sandor growled. “You wanted me to stay away from Sansa bloody Stark. How can you now be happy that we're together?”

“Believe it or not, Brother Digger, I was in fact testing your resolve and your actual feelings for Lady Stark. I _am_ more than happy to concede defeat in this matter.” The man’s shrewd eyes bore into Sandor’s, as if he was trying to search deep into his soul.

Sandor glowered at the Elder Brother, a retort forming on his tongue, but the former knight stopped him by raising a hand in the air.

“That said, you must know why Lady Stark came to see me early this morning.” The Elder Brother paused for one moment, making Sandor shift uneasily on the bed. Then he continued “The Lady has requested that I unite you in marriage—tonight.”

Sandor felt stunned, even angry again. Yes, he had been planning on asking the little bird to marry him—though it seemed unlikely that she would want to become his wife since he could bring nothing but his sword and himself to their union—but he had assumed that it would be _him_ asking _her_. It had never crossed his mind in all the seven hells that she would undertake entire wedding plans without even asking him if he wanted to marry her in the first place, for fuck's sake!

“And what did you tell her?” Sandor asked, fumbling with the bed sheet which barely covered his nakedness. He suddenly felt like a child again, playing with Gregor's toy knight, his heart thumping loudly in his chest, afraid of being caught by his monster of a brother. And he was found out, and Gregor burned him for touching what belonged to him—even if he didn’t care one whit about that toy. Sandor now feared the same with Sansa, that she would be taken away from him and he would be burned again because he dared touch her, dared love her.

“I told her that as a simple brother, I could not marry you. Thankfully, Septon Meribald arrived unexpectedly just last evening, and I informed Lady Stark that he could wed you tonight, in front of the Seven—if you both wished it. You know that it will have to be done quickly, in case Lord Petyr Baelish hears of this . . . and of course you will have to leave the Quiet Isle on the morrow, for everyone's safety. The farther away you get from that man, the better it will be for you both. Her guards will need to be kept in the dark as well.”

Then the Elder Brother started chuckling “Let me tell you, it was no easy task keeping them inside the septry last night with a promise of cards and wine. It took Myranda Royce's tales—which were of a very lurid and bawdy nature, the sort of which could make even the Seven blush—to hold their attention.”

The Elder Brother's eyes had begun to twinkle. _Fuck, he likes the plump little woman_ , was Sandor’s thought, making him almost snort. _Well, the Elder Brother had once been a man of the world, a knight, before finding the Faith of the Seven. Just because he became a holy brother doesn’t mean he couldn’t have a good long look at a nice pair of teats and a pretty face_. Then his mind returned to the topic at hand.

Marriage to his little bird . . . of course Sandor had hoped for it, as early as last night, though he would never in all his life thought that such a thing could have been possible for him. Marrying such a high-born, gentle Lady as Sansa Stark . . . as the second son of a minor house, Sandor never could have dreamed of such a thing she was so far above him in both station and breeding. She was a gentle, courteous, proper little lady while he was but a killer.

Women had never been known to throw themselves at Sandor, him being the scarred, low-born, ugly dog that he was. _Fuck, not a dog_ , he reminded himself yet again. That was going to take some practice. They had all been afraid of him and of his ugly burns. Even the whores he'd paid for pleasure had been scared of him; all they had wanted was for him to finish quickly, and he’d often obliged them. It still bewildered him that Sansa clearly saw something more in him. Maybe it was his prowess with a sword? Or might be it was his prowess with another type of sword . . . Sandor once again smiled smugly to himself.

That Sansa Stark wanted him at all, after he’d pined for her for so long, even back in King's Landing, still seemed like some sort of strange dream to Sandor.

He thought back to the first time he had realized he was falling in love with the little bird. It must have been not long after Ser Ilyn Payne had beheaded her father, Lord Eddard Stark, on that little bastard King Joffrey's orders. After that shit of a knight Ser Meryn Trant had hit her for the first time and she had clearly been thinking about pushing the young king off the battlements, Sandor had stopped her from doing so, had even gently dabbed at the little bird's bleeding mouth. Sansa's clear blue eyes had looked up at him, so intently . . . it had seemed as if they were boring right into his soul, and his heart had started thumping wildly in his chest while he felt he was almost drowning in those eyes.

To his shame, he had often dreamed of her. She had been so young, then, yet still he had imagined her older, laying naked in his bed, sprawled in all her beautiful glory, her auburn locks spread all around her head on his pillows like a halo; or taking her against a door while he pounded relentlessly into her, making her moan in ecstasy with each of his hard thrusts. His lurid dreams of Sansa Stark even continued after he had arrived here, on the Quiet Isle. He’d still imagined her older, knowing full well that she was now a woman, and in his dreams, his little bird had always looked on his scarred face openly—just as she did last night—while he fucked into her in so many different ways, making her come so many times around him he’d often fucked into his hand to relieve the intense yet hopeless tension.

Seven hells, he had even imagined the sons he could have had with Sansa but marriage? It had never really, truly crossed his mind as even a real, tangible possibility; at least, not until last night, when he had seriously considered asking the little bird to marry him. A fantasy? Yes. A reality? No.

And now it seemed that his little bird wanted the exact same thing as he did; that she wanted to marry him! Sandor Clegane, the Lannisters’ former dog, the Hound . . . and that it would happen tonight! So fast . . . _too fast_ , he thought, his stomach lurching dangerously.

Sandor Clegane suddenly started to panic.


	13. Sansa 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits the Elder Brother with a very important proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, My wonderful Beta girloficenfire. That is all <3

**CHAPTER 13: SANSA 7**

Sansa had woken early and made her way straight to the sept to talk to the Elder Brother, leaving Sandor to his agitated sleep, not wanting to wake him. Before she left, she lightly kissed his brow and silently shut the door behind her. On her way to the septry, her step had been urgent as Sansa was anxious to speak with the man without being seen. Her five guards had been given beds in the cells of the cloister area, and Sansa wanted to avoid them at all cost.

Once she found the Elder Brother alone in the sept, still kneeling at prayer, she patiently waited for him as he finished his devotions to, fittingly enough, the Warrior, and then she told him all, even though she was nervous about revealing everything—who she really was (though to her surprise he already knew), that she had given herself to Sandor Clegane the previous night, and that she was planning on marrying him as soon as was possible. “Preferably by tonight,” Sansa finished.

Then Sansa started fumbling with her dress and her cloak as she waited impatiently for the Elder Brother’s reaction to her news, and his answer.

This one gave her a long and pensive look before telling her that though he couldn't perform the wedding ceremony himself, a travelling Septon named Meribald had arrived on the Quiet Isle the day before and would be able to wed them. If, of course, that was truly what the Lady Sansa Stark—Robb Stark’s true and rightful heir, and the Queen in the North—and the former Lannister Hound, Sandor Clegane, both truly wanted.

“Yes,” Sansa replied. Then adding a moment later than she thought was proper, “If it pleases you.” Septa Mordane had taught her well about her courtesies, after all, they were a lady’s armor. Sansa was suddenly sad at the thought of her dead septa. _I was not always kind to her_ , she thought sadly. She remembered how Joffrey had made her look at her father and her septa’s severed heads mounted on spikes lining the walls of the battlements, making her screech and sob both in horror and shock before a strange calm overtook her; and she recalled how much more she’d hated Joffrey then, how she had wanted to kill him, how she was ready to push him to his death and take herself with him in the process—before the Hound stopped her. _Sandor saved me from myself. And he tried to save me from Joffrey, too._

“I cannot tell you whether or not it pleases me, Lady Stark, since it is not for me to say. But let me put this question to you, my lady: Can you be good to him?” the Elder Brother asked Sansa in a soft voice. “I'm afraid there is much of the Hound still in him, no matter how much Sandor Clegane tries to be a better man.”

“I love him,” Sansa told him simply, lifting her eyes to the Elder Brother's searching ones. “I love him, and I cannot see my life without him. I need his strength, his honesty, and his ferocity; I need him to be my shield . . . but most of all I need him as my Lord husband. I will not let him go again. Gods know I've made that mistake once . . .” Sansa’s voice trailed off and she looked away from him for an instant before returning her gaze to the Elder Brother again. “I want, I will marry Sandor Clegane.”

“Then,” the Elder Brother replied, “I wish you every kind of happiness. Perhaps being with the woman he truly loves will finally make Sandor Clegane a better man, the man we all hope he can be, and finally give him the peace he seeks.”

“His brother Gregor is dead and not by his hand, Elder Brother,” Sansa said softly. “Sandor may never truly get the peace he seeks, but I certainly will make sure that he gets as close to it as he can.”

“I hope so with all my heart, Lady Stark. Because the Gods help the men that stand in the way of Sandor Clegane, or rather, the Hound’s, rage.”

Sansa suddenly thought of Petyr Baelish and then of Sandor and looked at the Elder Brother closely. “And the gods help the men that stand in the way of mine.”

*****

Sansa left the sept with her heart completely filled with love for Sandor and felt as if she was walking on air. Her friend, Myranda Royce, had been waiting patiently for her outside, not wanting to intrude on Sansa’s private conversation with the Elder Brother. Sansa had not said anything to Randa yet, despite her friend’s deep seethed curiosity about the previous night.

She noticed that Randa was busy leering at and openly flirting with Ser Hugh Mance, one of the five guards Petyr Baelish had assigned to his ‘daugher’ Alayne. Sansa tensed. _What is he doing here? Oh gods please, not now_. “I was just telling Ser Hugh here, whom I just crossed paths with on my way to join you that you had risen early to pray in the sept.” Randa smiled brightly at Sansa and then at Ser Hugh.

“Yes . . . I was at prayer . . .” Sansa said slowly, lying through her teeth and trying not to sound too relieved. Ser Hugh had probably been on his way to her room, and would have no doubt found Sandor still there, if not for Randa intercepting him. Sansa thanked the old gods and the new as well as her best friend silently.

The handsome young knight—no more than three-and-twenty, with dark shoulder length wavy hair, eyes as clear as the waters of a mountain spring, and lips almost as full as any woman's—had been outrageously flirting back, even going so far as to trail his knuckles lightly over Randa’s collarbone. She was giggling, and her eyes clearly invited even more than he was giving.

Sansa rolled her eyes at her friend. _Randa never misses an opportunity to try to get a man into her bed. But she also just saved my neck as well as Sandor’s . . . no . . . Randa just saved Ser Hugh from Sandor._ She knew Sandor would probably have killed the young knight if this one had found him in Alayne’s cottage.

Of course both Sansa and Randa had kept everything secret from the guards. Randa had successfully acted as decoy the night before by entertaining Sansa's guards in the septry, with a hundred lurid tales and plying them with plenty of wine and card games—to the silent brothers’ deep horror but to the Elder Brother’s complete amusement, as she soon found out from Randa. They had needed to be kept fully entertained and as far away from Sansa's cottage as possible, and the ploy had of course worked perfectly, most of them too drunk to even attempt a trek to Sansa’s room and see if she was even there (Randa had even pretexted a nervous complaint to explain Sansa’s conspicuous absence). In the end, Alayne’s guards had either passed out in the septry, too drunk for words, or had barely made it to their cots in the cloister.

Of course, the guards were also lulled into a false sense of security since travel to and from the Quiet Isle was no easy task.

As the two women made their way back to the women’s cottage area, with Ser Hugh in tow, Sansa and Randa whispered to each other. “Randa, I’ve made up my mind, I will marry Sandor tonight. That’s why I went to see the Elder Brother.” Randa looked startled for a second but she giggled for Ser Hugh’s benefit who was walking just a few feet behind them, and wrapped her arm around Sansa’s waist. For a moment, Sansa was suddenly reminded of the only friend she’d had in King’s Landing after Joffrey took everyone away from her, Shae, her name was. Her lady’s maid but also her friend, the only one she had after Sandor left. She wondered if she was still in King’s Landing, if she was safe, and suddenly missed her.

Sansa also recalled the beautiful Margaery Tyrell, whom Joffrey had wedded after he put Sansa aside, remembering how nice she and her grandmother, the Lady Olenna Redwyne, also known as the Queen of Thorns, had been to Sansa—even planning a marriage between Sansa and Margaery’s older brother, Willas Tyrell. Sansa had looked forward to this union, imagining herself in love with the Knight of Flowers’ older, kind, crippled brother for a time. Until the Lannisters discovered the plan and married Sansa to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. Sansa knew now that Margaery and her grandmother were responsible for Joffrey’s death and for framing the murder on Tyrion and Sansa both, making her an unwitting accessory to Joff’s murder. _Margaery and her grandmother were no true friends. Just like there are no true knights._

Because of this—and because her ‘father’ Petyr Baelish had taught her well—‘Alayne’ had become more astute in singling out who were her true friends, and who weren’t. And the Lady Myranda Royce was one friend Sansa knew she could count on, along with the dead King Robert Baratheon’s fierce bastard daughter Mya Stone. But Mya was still at the Gates of the Moon, since she’d been too ill to accompany ‘Alayne’ and Randa to the Quiet Isle. Sansa smiled inwardly since both she and Randa knew that Mya was actually pregnant with her new husband Ser Lothor Brune’s child.

“I need you to continue to keep Ser Hugh and Petyr's other guards away from my cottage just now,” Sansa whispered again, chancing a backward glance at the young knight. “I have to get Sandor out of there before any of them sees him, and we need to keep our plan a secret until this . . . Septon Meribald marries us tonight. Then they won't be able to do anything about it.”

Randa glanced playfully back at Ser Hugh, who blushed beet red in reaction to Randa's appreciative look. “Except perhaps seizing you by force and bringing you back to the Vale kicking and screaming?” Randa whispered back, smiling brightly at the young knight again.

Sansa's heart sank. She hadn't considered that part, but surely Sandor would stop them from taking her? He was the strongest, fiercest warrior she had ever known, and taking on five guards would be like nothing for the Hound she knew.

“Do you think giving your maidenhead away to Clegane will stop Petyr Baelish from marrying you even if he no longer gives you away to Harrold Hardyng? Because it won’t. No one needs know about you losing your maidenhead to the former Lannister dog. Littlefinger will keep this secret, even if he has to kill the Elder Brother, who now knows everything, and the man you love. And he’ll probably have me killed too,” Randa whispered, a sudden fear creeping into her voice. “Baelish will have a spy on the Isle quick enough to do the dirty deed swiftly, as soon as he gets you back.”

“The guards won’t take me back. Sandor will kill them,” Sansa whispered even lower to Randa. “Anyway, this is why Sandor and I will leave the Quiet Isle before the sun is up on the morrow.” Sansa wrapped her arm around Randa’s waist now. She leaned in close to her friend. “You really need to keep the guards occupied.” Sansa’s tone became almost desperate, making her friend sigh.

“Don't worry, I have them all eating out of my hand,” Randa continued. “I'll be able to keep the guards away from you for another night. But,” she looked keenly into Sansa's eyes, “you and Sandor will have to leave no later than the morrow . . . for all our safety. I will plead innocence in all this and hope Baelish doesn’t suspect me . . .” Then she flashed her friend a wicked smile and added, “So, how was it?”

This time it was Sansa who blushed. “It was wonderful,” she replied softly. “Not at all like I expected . . . It- it hurt less than I thought it would, even though it was painful at first.”

Randa nodded knowingly. “It's always easier when you really desire someone, and are wet and ready for them.” She hesitated for a second before asking, “So I gather Clegane was an adequate lover? Him being so tall and large, I figure he was, hmm, well equipped to please you?” Randa whispered to Sansa, making her gasp in horror. No matter how used she was to Randa’s frank talk about sex, she still managed to surprise and shock her. Randa continued as if she hadn’t noticed Sansa’s shocked reaction. “Are you now truly assured of his feelings for you?”

Sansa blushed furiously at her friend's questions. “Yes . . . I believe he was. He was . . . very attentive.” Then she added, a bit deflated, “But he hasn't said that he loves me . . . although I believe he does. It was there, implied in his touch, his kisses. I don't think it's something Sandor would feel comfortable saying. I don't think he's ever really felt much loved before.”

“Having met his charming self yesterday, I have no doubt that it's neither in his personality nor in his character to be able to say such words easily. That, and there is also the case of his reputation as one of the Seven Kingdom’s most dangerous warriors.” Randa’s arm left Sansa’s waist and she now locked it around Sansa's own, bringing her closer. “But . . . you should broach the topic of your marriage with him now,” she said, adding helpfully, “before he hears of your plans to wed him tonight from anyone else?”

Sansa stood still for a few seconds, as if rooted to the ground. “I should have talked to him about it first. Do you think he'll be very angry?” Sansa bit down on her lower lip.

Randa laughed before whispering in Sansa's ear, “Not if the man really is in love with you, but perhaps it is something you should have talked over with him before running to the Elder Brother.”

Sansa continued to worry at her lower lip. “Maybe I should have,” she admitted. “Gods, what have I done?” Sansa could feel her stomach churning in worry and thought for a second that she would heave its contents up onto the grass.

Randa shrugged, and then squeezed her friend’s hand helpfully. “You are still very young Sansa.”

“I am seven and ten,” Sansa whispered.

“Yes,” Randa added. “You are very young indeed. And you are in love. But I wouldn't worry if I were you, Sansa. I have a feeling that your lover will be more than happy to wed you.”

“Then why do I suddenly feel like I've made a terrible mistake?” Sansa asked her friend desperately.


	14. Sandor 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds Sandor hiding away in the stables in the wake of learning she wants to marry him. Will they work things out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all my thanks to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire. Much love to her <3

**CHAPTER 14: SANDOR 8**

After raiding the Quiet Isle’s kitchen pantry for a couple of wineskins, Sandor was as drunk as he could possibly be.

He was wasting away the day in the stables with his warhorse, Stranger—or 'Driftwood'—as the Elder Brother had decided to rename him. Sandor snorted at the name. _Buggering holy brothers._ He took another sip of the wine and snorted again.

He supposed that he should be happy that his little bird wanted to be married to him, being only the second son of a minor house now completely landless, with nothing but his sword and his strength and his ferocity to offer her, but instead the whole notion scared the seven hells out of him. He'd never really seen himself as the marrying kind, because he never thought anyone would ever want to marry _him_ , and now it felt too real, too fast, no matter how much he wanted and loved Sansa Stark.

_Ned Stark’s daughter, Robb Stark’s heir, the bloody Queen in the North. Fuck me,_ Sandor thought. _What the fuck does she see in me? I’m just a scarred, old dog. A fucking bodyguard, a bloody killer._

So he'd gone and done the thing he did best, besides fighting and killing, that was; he’d gotten good and proper drunk.

After an hour spent hiding in the stables drinking—thankfully everyone had had the good sense to leave him alone in there—Sansa had finally discovered him.

“Sandor, what are you doing?” his beautiful little bird asked, worry etched plainly across her fine-boned features. Her Tully-blue eyes were fixed on him, flicking quickly to the wineskin he had in his hand and then to the ones he had already discarded on the floor beside him, before focusing on his face again. “Are you drunk?” She almost whispered.

“Why yes, Lady Stark,” he slurred studiously, wrapping his tongue around his words carefully, years of habit kicking in. “Might be I am.” Then he smirked at her.

“Why?” she asked sweetly, and suddenly Sandor felt anger well up inside him once again.

“’Why?’ the lady is asking,” he slurred again. “It is because the lady has plans to marry this old scarred dog tonight, and didn’t think to inform him of her sweet plans before she made them,” he finished with a growl.

Sansa knelt in front of him and laid her soft, perfect hands lightly on his thighs, sending an unbidden jolt of arousal course through his body. _Fuck me, how can she have that strong of an effect on me? Making me react like a bloody green squire like that?_ He stared at her hands, still on his thighs, and then his eyes quickly flickered up to meet hers.

“I'm sorry Sandor,” she said as she looked at him deeply. “I should have discussed this with you before . . . I thought . . . I thought it would please you that I would want to become your wife, to be really, truly yours,” she murmured to him, staring straight and true into his eyes again.

_Why does she have to be so honest? Doesn’t she remember anything that I tried to teach her back in King’s Landing?_ He snorted. _Silly old dog, you taught her how much you hated liars. What are you complaining for?_

“Well I'm having none of it,” he spat in her face, though in the back of his mind a little voice was screaming: _Shut up, shut up, you bastard, you're ruining everything with the little bird!_

Sansa's cheeks flushed red and her little fists closed tight together over his thighs. Sandor could see that she was angry now, as she moved her face in very close to his, until their noses almost touched.

“Maybe you are right, Sandor,” Sansa said to him in the icy cold tone of a highborn lady, a tone he knew far too well. “Maybe wanting to marry you and be your wife is the worst idea in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. I'm sorry I ever thought you would want me, the stupid, chirping, wanton bird who shared your bed and gave you her maidenhead last night. After all, I only love you.” She was almost hissing now, her perfect white teeth bared in her anger.

_Fuck, she’s beautiful like that, a real Stark wolf . . . The little bird has it in her after all . . ._ he thought wildly as he stared at her intently through his drunken state.

“I don't know what I ever saw in you,” Sansa continued, anger suffusing her cheeks. “After all, the only thing you know how to do is kill, and you could obviously never love someone back. I should have known, considering that you once told me that killing was the sweetest thing there is.”

Sandor gave her a hard stare, his mouth agape, fuming.

Then suddenly his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her deeply, hungrily, almost cruelly.

At first Sansa struggled against him furiously, but soon her struggles became feeble ones and she let out a whimper before yielding to his demanding kiss, wrapping her arms tight around his neck, turning her head slightly and opening her mouth to allow him access to her tongue so he could tease it with his own. He groaned at the wonderful sensation as a sharp stab of arousal tingled through him.

The next thing Sandor knew he had stood up, and the little bird’s legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. He pinned her against Stranger’s stall door as his warhorse started whinnying and became slightly agitated at the far back of the stall, and began fumbling with her skirts, trying to pull them up over her hips.

Sansa panted into his mouth and tried to help him with the heavy folds of fabric. “We have to keep silent,” she whispered against his neck. “My guards could be close by.”

“Bugger them,” Sandor grumbled. Somehow the fear of discovery made what they were about to do all the more exciting and arousing; Sandor felt his already half-hard manhood become fully erect at the thought, the hard bulge in his breeches straining against the fabric and the laces almost painfully. “Seven buggering hells,” he rasped.

After they had managed to drag her skirts up over her hips, Sandor tore Sansa's already soaked smallclothes open by ripping at the seam below her wet slit. He shoved one long, large finger deep inside of her and curled it up, touching and rubbing that most sensitive spot that had made her come so quickly the night before. Sansa moaned against Sandor's mouth, trying to muffle the sound, and bucked her hips against him, fucking his hand as he moved his finger inside her in a short, fast, rhythmic motion.

Then he broke the kiss and searched the deep blue pools of her eyes. “I'm drunk, Sansa. Do you really want to continue this, or would you have me stop?” Might be he was drunk, but if the little bird wanted him to pleasure her, then he would do whatever she wanted of him.

Sansa responded by darting her tongue into his mouth with a violence he hadn’t thought possible coming from her. She ground her hips against his hand even harder, moaning so loudly that he worried that someone was bound to hear and come running. But thankfully this did not happen, likely because the silent brothers knew that Sandor was in the stables and would keep well away while he was in there. He chuckled at the thought. Still, he thought it best to remind _her_ of the need to be as silent as they could, “Shhhhh, little bird. Please keep quiet for both our sakes,” his tone was urgent, almost pleading.

Sandor fumbled with the laces of his breeches (not having bothered to put on his brother's dun-and-brown robes today all the while making sure he stayed well away from Sansa’s guards) and released his twitching, aching cock. It had already started leaking pearly fluid over the tip of his swollen cockhead in his excitement. He used his thumb to spread the wetness slowly over the head of his manhood and started stroking himself against Sansa's warm moist entrance. _Fuck me, she is so wet for me already!_ He groaned.

Sansa was still moaning and whimpering in his good ear, and though she was still trying to keep quiet she was also begging Sandor to fuck her, grinding herself against him so hard that he almost lost his wits. “Sandor , please fuck me now, I want to feel you moving inside me.”

So he quickly took his stiff cock in hand, steadied it against Sansa's wet folds, and slid his entire length into her in one swift stroke. “Fuck,” he groaned as he felt himself being squeezed into the little bird’s tight, warm, wet cunt.

Sansa whimpered against him and froze at the feeling of his rock hard cock already deep inside of her. “Oh gods!” She gasped and moaned. She clutched at him, her legs clenched painfully around his waist and her arms entwined tightly around his neck. Sandor could hear her breathing heavily. Her cunt was still so tight that his cock felt almost crushed inside her wetness as her muscles clenched hard around him. Finally she relaxed and once again began moving her hips almost timidly against his.

“Sandor . . . oh, yes . . . please . . . fuck me . . . please,” she moaned prettily against his mouth, now moving her hips up and down his hard shaft with abandon as he supported her weight with one strong arm, steadying himself against the stall door with the other.

Sandor did as he was bid, fucking into her with deep, slow, upward thrusts.

He was her dog, after all, no matter what Sansa said, and it was his duty to obey her. _No, not a dog_ , played again at the back of his head, but he was just too bloody aroused to care.

Sandor did try to restrain himself this time, sliding wetly in and out of her with slow, rhythmic bucks of his hips, his cock hard as Valyrian steel. Fucking her like this was almost driving him mad, but he wanted to make love to his little bird, didn’t want to treat her like some common whore. And though he found it hard to control the movement of his hips when every one of his instincts was pushing him to pound into her relentlessly, he found a certain satisfaction in fucking Sansa slowly as she moaned his name over and over again with each upward thrust of his hips.

Soon, though, Sandor could tell that Sansa wanted more. He followed her lead, increasing his own tempo as she began rolling her hips faster, fucking into her hard and fast, a fine sheen of sweat now covering them both as he kneaded Sansa’s luscious arse with one hand.

“Oh Gods, this feels so good . . . you feel so good, little bird,” Sandor rasped in Sansa's ear. Sansa let out a tiny mewl at Sandor's words and let her head fall back against the stall door, exposing her long, beautiful white neck to him and to his hungry kisses. Her eyes closed but her rosy lips opened in a little O of pleasure.

Sandor's breath was coming in fast and in his excitement to release her perfect breasts from the top of her tight dress he ripped the front of Sansa's blasted gown. As soon as her teats were freed from their prison he closed his mouth over her right breast, rolling his tongue around her hardening nipple before sucking hard on it, making her whimper in pleasure and making his cock throb even harder.

Sansa arched her back, pressing herself towards him, hissing in her pleasure. Her hands groped at the back of his head and she twined her fingers into his hair, scraping the back of his scalp almost painfully. But Sandor didn't care one whit about any of this—all that he cared about right now was the intense feeling of bliss that he was experiencing thanks to his little bird's tightness wrapped around his hard cock, combined with her complete desire for him, and his for her.

“Sansa, my beautiful, wanton little bird,” he murmured as soon as he’d released her stiff little nipple with a popping sound.

Sandor felt Sansa move one arm away from his head, sliding it between their bodies as she reached for her hard little nub, her fingers moving in tight rhythmic circles over it when she found that sweet spot again, as she started to moan against his neck. “Sandor, yes, it feels good . . . you feel so good.”

He could feel her knuckles moving rhythmically against his groin, driving him mad with lust, and the knowledge that the little bird was touching herself while he was fucking into her added to his already building pleasure. “Fuck Sansa, you’re just too bloody arousing . . .” he moaned in complete ecstasy against her.

Then Sansa reached for his left hand and placed it where hers had been just moments before. Sandor leaned in against the door on his right leg to pin Sansa harder against the stall door, supporting her weight. At first his fingers met hers with something like hesitation, but he quickly settled into a swift, tight, circular movement over her hard, wet nub. Sansa's muffled little cries of pleasure encouraged him in these ministrations.

Sansa was breathing hard now, whimpering against his good ear. “Oh, Gods,” she suddenly said. “Don't stop, don't- don't stop fucking me . . . don't stop pleasuring me! I'm getting close,” she panted.

That was all that Sandor needed to hear. “Gods, Sansa!” He lost control over the movement of his hips, fucking into her in messy jerks, grunting hard and moving in and out of her quickly. The powerful feeling of pressure that he was feeling in his cock seemed to shoot back into his hard balls, and it was so strong that he knew he couldn’t hold back much longer.

“Little bird,” he almost croaked, “I can't take much more of this . . . oh seven bloody hells!” he exclaimed, as his release hit him powerfully and he spilled his seed deep inside her; pleasure coiling and exploding throughout his entire body.

Then he felt Sansa's own climax come hard, felt her cunt clenching rapidly all around him, squeezing him in wonderful pulsing waves of pleasure, and she let out a loud wail that Sandor cut short by pressing his mouth over hers, his tongue sliding wetly against hers. She sobbed her relief in his mouth as she continued to desperately grind her hips and her nub against his fingers and his cock.

He held her, pinned against the stall door, unmoving for what seemed to him an eternity—one he did not want to see end, until his breathing slowly returned to normal and he felt his cock start to soften inside of her, his seed leaking on the inside of her thighs. As they stood there, clinging to each other with something that felt close to desperation, Sandor suddenly knew that there was only one thing he could say to her just now. He whispered it against her fragrant hair, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that he felt he would die.

“I love you, my wanton, eager little bird. So yes . . . I'll marry you.”


	15. Sansa 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor plan to marry, will everything run smoothly? Or will Alayne's guards find them out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my wonderful Beta girloficenfire who did an amazing job by making this story better <3

**CHAPTER 15: SANSA 8**

Sansa Stark was on a mission.

After their bout of passionate lovemaking, Sansa left Sandor in the stables—leaving him to return discretely to his own room in the cloister area—and once again escaped the vigilance of her guards. She decided to make her way directly to the little sept again where she hoped to find Septon Meribald at prayers. The Elder Brother had previously told her she would surely find him there at this hour.

As she made her way to the sept again Sansa could not help but dwell on what she and Sandor had just done—it had been quite indecent, dangerous, and exciting all at once, and she felt herself blush a deep pink with heat creeping up her chest, her neck and her cheeks, while a dull, pleasurable ache returned to her womanly place at the remembrance of it.

Once she arrived at the sept, Sansa slowly made her way toward the praying man with the dog standing at attention beside his master while the other brothers were also at prayer, and Sansa espied the Elder Brother at the head of the congregation. _The Elder Brother told me Septon Meribald had a dog with him,_ she thought, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Only the ruffle of her long skirts against the rushes coating the floor could be heard. That, and she feared, the beating of her heart.

The dog left his master’s side and came to sniff at Sansa’s hand. She kneeled and patted it on the head before he gave her a lick on the face, making her giggle before she became sad again when it made her think of her dead direwolf, Lady. Meanwhile, Dog was wagging its tail energetically, and was looking at her with big, innocent round eyes as its tongue kept licking her. Sansa rose again behind the praying septon, leaving Dog to lick her hand.

Septon Meribald did not raise his head when he heard her approach from behind, but continued in his prayer. Sansa waited directly behind him, fidgeting and fumbling again with her dress, with Dog at her side, trying to keep the top of her bodice neatly in place and hidden behind her cloak. She had done all she could with it after Sandor had torn it open, and at the moment was simply hoping no one would take notice.

Despite their attempts to clean their satiated bodies after having . . . _fucked_ in the stables, Sansa could still feel the stickiness of Sandor's seed on the inside of her thighs. Somehow it made her feel strangely whole.

“Lady Stark, I was expecting you,” Septon Meribald finally said in a low murmur, after what seemed like an eternity. He did not turn toward her, though, and kept his head bowed toward the Mother. Dog made his way again to its master’s side quite happily enough.

“Then you know why I am here?” Sansa asked as discretely as she could, keeping her voice low and even.

“Yes. The Elder Brother has told me all.”

The wandering septon stood up slowly and turned towards Sansa. He was a very tall man, towering over her though she herself was tall—and this, despite his hunch. She took note of his windburned face, his honest eyes, and his mane of thick grey hair. She noticed how his feet were bare and how the soles seemed weathered, almost leathery. _How can he still walk all these leagues with his feet bare on the cold, freezing ground? The winds of autumn are upon us and Winter is Coming._

Sansa lowered her eyes demurely to the sept’s ground, her hands smoothing invisible creases over her dress before she crossed them against the lower part of her stomach. “I would beg of you to marry me to the man I love. Tonight, if it pleases you.” Sansa repeated again to Septon Meribald, after telling the exact same thing to the Elder Brother earlier today, never forgetting her courtesies—especially with a man of the Faith. _They trained me well, all of them . . . there I am, still chirping my courtesies just like I did in Winterfell. Just like I did with Joffrey so he wouldn’t have me beat by his Kingsguard; Just like I did in King’s Landing in front of everyone at court; Just like I’ve been doing in the Eyrie and the Vale with my ‘father,’ Petyr Baelish; Just like I’m doing right here, right now_ she thought bitterly.

“Am I wrong to believe, Lady Stark, that as a child of the North, your faith is that of the First Men? Do you not worship the Old Gods in their godswoods?” Septon Meribald asked her kindly. “How can a Septon of the Faith of the Seven marry you then?”

“It was the faith of my mother too,” Sansa replied softly. “And it is also the faith of the man I wish to marry,” Sansa swallowed hard and tried to keep a straight face as she told this lie. _Petyr would be proud of me just now and Sandor would be angry_. She knew that Sandor didn't believe in any gods. In fact, he would tell them all to go bugger themselves with a hot poker. Sansa smiled inwardly at the thought.

Septon Meribald chuckled softly. “Yes, I have heard of the man you wish to marry. Tell me, Lady Stark, is Sandor Clegane—the former Lannister Hound—really the kind of man to whom you wish to bind yourself?” he asked, cocking his head to the left, curiosity showing plainly on his features.

Sansa looked directly into his face, her eyes deep blue pools of truth, her voice steady and strong yet soft. “Yes. In my heart, I believe there is no man in all the Seven Kingdoms who is more worthy to me.” She lowered her gaze to the ground demurely again. Dog slowly walked back toward her, nuzzling her right hand. Sansa kneeled and patted the top of its head, while he licked at her face once more, wagging its tail furiously, making Sansa laugh wholeheartedly and hug the dog to her almost fiercely.

“Dog likes you,” Septon Meribald said pleasantly as she felt his eyes bore into her.

“I like him too,” Sansa murmured.

When she raised her face again, however, tears were now welling in her eyes. “I love Sandor Clegane more than I ever thought possible to love someone,” she breathed. “He is the man I wish to spend the rest of my life with, and he with me.” Dog whined a little for Sansa to keep on petting him, which she did almost absent mindedly.

She waited for the septon to say something back following her heartfelt honest declaration of love for the former Hound. Sandor would have squirmed and harrumphed at all the mushiness, she knew.

Septon Meribald looked at her pensively for several long minutes.

 _Too many long minutes_ , Sansa thought.

“The Elder Brother told me Brother Digger was a . . . ah, somewhat changed man from what he used to be . . . and he also told me he believes Clegane to be truly in love with you. As for being good for each other, well,” he chuckled, “it would appear that this is something the gods and everyone else will have to wait and see.”

“So, will you perform the ceremony and marry us this night?” Sansa was feeling somewhat impatient for the septon to answer her, yet she also felt hopeful that he would agree.

“How can I refuse true love?” was Septon Meribald's response.

*****

Sansa and Randa busied themselves with readying the Elder Brother's Hermit Hole for the wedding ceremony—her and Sandor’s wedding ceremony—which was to take place in less than an hour. It was in dire need of a good cleaning, fresh rushes, and some flowers to make it look and smell nice. They even cut late blooming winter roses from the gardens to enliven the Elder Brother's solar.

They had opted to perform the ceremony there so as to keep the wedding hidden from Sansa's guards, who had clearly begun to feel suspicious of their charge's frequent disappearances these past two days. If it hadn’t been for Randa trying her best to keep them occupied with her bawdy stories and obvious flirting, as well as the Elder Brother regaling them with stories from his days as a knight both before and during the Battle of the Trident, Sansa felt she and Sandor would have been found out already. And she didn’t include that little bout of lovemaking in the stables earlier.

Sansa silently thanked the old gods and the new they hadn’t been found out yet.

She was also more than thankful for Randa's help and she knew she owed much to her dearest friend. Sansa also recognized that she once again needed Randa to keep the guards occupied this night. The lady Myranda had suggested that a feast given in their honor tonight would do very well indeed; a feast that Sansa would of course attend as their dutiful charge Alayne, so as not to raise more suspicion, and which Sandor—as Brother Digger for the very last time—would also attend. A feast where the mead and wine would flow freely into the five men's cups, which would hopefully lead them not to notice Sandor and Sansa’s discrete departure later on.

They would make their way to her cottage and wait for dawn to break before crossing the river toward Saltpans on the ferry, and then they would most likely make their way north, perhaps toward Moat Cailin and hopefully, _eventually_ , Winterfell.

Sansa could feel trepidation pooling deep inside of her again. She was both excited and scared about marrying Sandor. She knew that she was safe with him; she also knew that he loved her . . . and when he had actually said those words she had so wanted to hear: ‘I love you,’ Sansa had grabbed him by his tunic and kissed him deeply, trying to convey through that kiss how much she loved him too. At first Sandor had chuckled into her mouth, but then his tongue had eagerly rolled back against hers . . . then he had made her his again amidst the rushes of the stable’s floor.

After the urgency of their previous lovemaking Sandor had then taken her slowly, his hips moving into her unhurriedly, almost languidly, making her pleasure hum through her as he slowly licked and suckled on her hardened nipples until the movement of his hips became urgent, almost frantic again, with their simultaneous release hitting them with a force that had made Sansa almost see stars behind her fluttering eyelids, as they moaned each other’s names into their kiss while they grinded their hips together almost desperately. Cleaning themselves up of the twigs right after they’d scrubbed the seed from their thighs had made Sansa giggle like mad while Sandor had once again scowled at her.

When the Hermit Hole was ready and filled with fragrant white winter roses (Sandor would likely snort at the flowers, Sansa knew), Randa approached her and held her close, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “Everything will be alright, Sansa. You will see. You are finally marrying the man of your dreams, are you not?”

Sansa could not help but laugh bitterly. Once upon a time, the 'man of her dreams' had once been a handsome blonde monster named Joffrey Baratheon, and it seemed ironic that the man she was now about to marry did not look anything like the pretty knights she had dreamt of as a child and as a young woman. Men like Ser Arthur Dayne, or Ser Loras Tyrell, even the handsome and gallant prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

Sansa had grown up—mainly thanks to Sandor’s brutal honesty and, she thought reluctantly, also thanks to Petyr Baelish who had also taught her so much about the game of thrones, despite the hatred she now felt for him—and she could only look back in shame and shake her head over how shallow and stupid she had been then. Gods! But now, _Sandor is the most handsome, the most beautiful man in the world to me_ , she thought, smiling. She no longer saw his scars as ugly; he was now more beautiful to her than all those ‘pretty’ knights she used to dream about. _Sandor is also the truest knight I have ever known, even if he isn't a knight at all_ _and hates what most of them stand for, hates their hypocrisy._

Randa squeezed Sansa's hands and gave her a reassuring smile. “You look perfect,” Randa mouthed.

Sansa bit her lip nervously but returned her friend’s smile. She had decided to wear her best gown of lilac silk she had taken with her on this trip, and her long brownish-auburn hair was set in a simple northern fashion with just a few white roses entwined in it. She was holding two make-shift cloaks so they could be used as part of their wedding vows.

Soon the Elder Brother made his entrance with Septon Meribald and Dog and “Brother Digger” in tow. This one bowed slightly before entering the Hermit’s Hole since he was so tall he had to bend his head to enter. Sandor was once again wearing a novice's brown-and-dun robes so as not to arouse suspicion, and for a moment Sansa was tempted to laugh. The robes made him look so strange, him being so tall and broad, with his strong arms hidden in the bell sleeves and the pointed cowl raised over his head. He was even wearing that strange piece of cloth to hide the lower half of his face, and she could see how uncomfortable he was in the garment.

Sandor must have noticed that she was struggling not to laugh, and he glared at her hard as he lowered his cowl and took off the piece of cloth that had been covering his face. Then he smirked. “Well, I'm here and quite sober now, Lady Stark. So if Septon Meribald would care to begin, let's get married, shall we?”

*****

The feast was going splendidly. The guards were distracted by plenty of wine and mead, the very entertaining presence of Myranda Royce, and of course all of the delicious food, which included a hearty stew of crabs and mussels, some warm loaves of bread, and cakes made with honey from the Quiet Isle's hives.

The five men from the Vale were quite drunk and boisterous by the time they started singing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair,' leading to horrified glances from the silent brothers, making Sansa giggle almost uncontrollably. The Elder Brother was even smiling broadly and heartily joined them in song—to more horrified looks from the other brothers and to more fits of giggles from Sansa and Randa, who smiled for all her worth at the former knight.

“Randa! He’s a holy brother!” Sansa jabbed at her friend when she noticed the glances Randa was shooting the Elder Brother’s way.

“So what?” her friend whispered back. “He’s a man like all men, with a man’s needs and desires.” She smirked at Sansa who rolled her eyes again at her best friend.

“You should stick with Ser Hugh, I believe he’s more than ready and willing to warm your blankets,” Sansa continued helpfully. “And he has not taken any holy vows of chastity.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Mayhap I will join Ser Hugh in his cot tonight,” she whispered to Sansa while her eyes went to rest on the young, handsome knight. Ser Hugh noticed Randa staring at him and he raised his cup to her, smiling all the while shooting her some lusty glances, making Randa coo appreciatively Ser Hugh’s way.

Sansa, who was sitting next to Randa at the long driftwood table, then started sipping on her own wine while her eyes darted across the room to where Sandor was sitting with his former fellow brothers, the cowl of his robes pushed down low over his head to hide his face. Her new husband was also nursing a cup of wine and pretending to listen to the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald’s deep and lively discussion about the Seven-Pointed-Star, the holy text of the Faith of the Seven.

She was trying not to look at him too often, but the temptation was proving difficult and Randa had to nudge her in the ribs quite a few times in order to keep her in check. For his part, Sandor kept shooting lustful glances toward Sansa, and she could only hope that no one but she saw them. Sansa felt a dull ache return to her womanly place, and she couldn’t wait to leave the feast to be with Sandor again. All she could think about was for him to wrap her in his strong, powerful arms, to kiss her deeply, and to make love to her once more. The thought of Sandor entering her again made the throbbing between her legs even more persistent, sending a shot of arousal coursing through her entire body, making Sansa almost moan in anticipation for what would be coming tonight. Sansa brushed the thought aside for now and her mind happily wandered back to their marriage ceremony.

Sansa had felt both nervous and happier than she’d ever been in a long time. The Elder Brother had acted as Sansa’s surrogate father, unclasping her maiden’s cloak. Then Sandor covered her with his makeshift cloak, on which Sansa had hurriedly embroidered three black dogs on a yellow field, wrapping it around her shoulders while they exchanged the words uniting them in marriage. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband,” Sansa said, tears of happiness welling into her eyes.

“With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife,” Sandor replied hoarsely, and for an instant Sansa could see how chocked up he was, making her love for him soar even higher.

Sandor had leaned in and kissed Sansa softly on the lips as she rose to meet him on tiptoe, his whiskers and beard tickling her. Although they kept the kiss chaste, Sansa felt as if a bolt of lightning had coursed through her body, almost making her breathless. She could see that Sandor felt the same way from the lustful look he gave her, making her blush a deep pink.

Then Septon Meribald had proclaimed: “Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Sandor of House Clegane and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”

She'd almost cried at the deep significance all of this held for her, remembering the time that Sandor had wrapped his white Kingsguard’s cloak around her shoulders, hiding her nakedness from the entire court after Joffrey's guards had beaten her and ripped open her gown. To her, no cloak had ever felt so fine as she clutched to it desperately. How prophetic that had been, she realized, and she wondered whether Sandor’s current expression meant that he too was thinking back on that unhappy time for her.

“So, what do you say to that, Lady Alayne?” The insistent voice at her left side brought Sansa's attention back to the present. It was one of her guards, Ser Marq Ryder, a middle-aged knight with a wide girth and a bulbous nose, speaking. He was attempting to regale Alayne with the story of some hunt he'd undertaken once in his youth, against a monstrous boar or stag that had been terrorizing the Riverlands but she wasn't really paying any attention to what he was telling her. All that she wanted to do was to leave the feast, go back to her cottage, and make love to her new husband again.

From the corner of her eye she could see that Sandor was also having a hard time keeping his eyes off her. Both the Elder Brother and Septon Meribald were trying to hold his attention by including him in their discussion of the holy text, and she could almost see him groan inwardly in complete agony.

To while away the time, and in hopes of droning out Ser Marq's voice, Sansa started drinking far more wine than she should have been, and the warm room was soon spinning dangerously around her. But it made her feel so good that she almost didn't care. So when Ser Marq kept on talking to her and asking her questions about this and that, Sansa politely smiled and made all the necessary noises to show her appreciation of the pudgy Knight’s ‘feats of bravery.’

On her right Randa was busy giggling and exchanging pleasantries with Ser Hugh who’d now sat himself next to her, making him laugh at some lewd joke she just made and then cooing appreciatively at the young comely knight. _At least Randa is enjoying herself_ , Sansa thought to herself while she was being completely miserable besides Ser Marq. Not that it was the middle-aged knight’s fault. Ser Hugh was indeed handsome and seemed gallant enough, and Ser Marq appeared to be pleasant and polite, but Sansa knew enough about false knights to be wary of each and every one of them.

After gulping down two more cups of wine at a rather alarming speed, and excusing herself to Ser Marq, she rose a bit unsteadily from the bench and made her way toward the door—she needed to make water. When she walked past Sandor and the Elder Brother she heard the latter tell Brother Digger to accompany the Lady Alayne, since it appeared to him that she was in need of some assistance.

Sandor grabbed her by the arm to help steady her and gently dragged her outside, his strong arm all but holding her up.

“What are you doing?” he almost hissed. “You're drunk.”

“I'm not drunk,” Sansa replied smugly. “Just pretending to be. It's all part of the plan.” She slurred a little. “Though I feel a bit lightheaded,” she admitted.

“Now is not the time to act foolishly Sansa,” he rasped back. “Your guards seem well on their way to being quite drunk themselves. The Elder Brother and your friend Randa will make sure they continue on that path,” he added.

They stepped outside the stuffy hall into the night’s cool, crisp autumn air. Then Sansa felt Sandor's big fingers brush her face gently as she swayed tipsily in his arms.

“Now, I believe it is time for us to make our way to your cottage, little bird,” he said hoarsely.

Sansa felt the dull ache between her legs return again. “Yes,” she whispered, “husband.” But then she added, a bit shyly, “But I really need to make water first.”


	16. Sandor 9 / Sansa 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa spend their wedding night together on the Quiet Isle as a married couple. Yep. You got it. Much smut ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my wonderful Beta girloficenfire who always made everything better <3

**CHAPTER 16: SANDOR 9 / SANSA 9**

They had barely even entered Sansa's cottage before their hands and mouths were all over each other. Sandor hurriedly pulled his brotherly robes over his head, throwing the brown-and-dun garment behind him in one corner of the room with a grunt before he reached and fumbled with the laces of her dress, still kissing her deeply, heatedly, his hungry mouth demanding against hers. It made her completely breathless.

To Sansa's utter excitement she saw that other than his smallclothes, Sandor was already almost completely naked under the ugly vestment with no linen shift standing between them, enabling her to see his large muscular chest while her hands went up of their own accord to caress every single inch of his hard body while he almost growled in pleasure.

 _He’s been almost naked underneath his robes all that time_ , Sansa thought excitedly and tried to help her new husband with the laces of her dress, but couldn’t seem to manage to untie them either. _Damn wine_ , she thought.

“Sansa, little bird, you really are drunk,” Sandor said, half-amused. He looked down at his wife from his great height and smiled smugly at her.

Sansa lifted her head to eye him back but only managed to grunt in response, which made Sandor laugh.

She'd never heard him laugh before. Not like that. She liked it. He approached her again and crushed her to him, his mouth closing over hers in a hungry kiss while he entwined his large hands into her soft hair, using his long fingers to comb through it, sending some wonderful shivers up and down her spine.

Sansa felt Sandor’s manhood stiffen against her stomach and the dull ache between her legs returned in full force, but she was worried that she was a bit too light headed at the moment to make love to him.

Then a thought crossed her mind. A thought so unladylike that she blushed a deep crimson and felt heat creep up her chest and go to her cheeks, which Sandor noticed.

He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and stepped back, looking intently into her eyes. “Do you want us to stop, Sansa? We don't need to—”

“No!” she blurted out. “That is,” she continued, shyly, “I would like to try something different.” Gods, she felt so embarrassed, but her desire for Sandor was so great she was ready to ask almost anything of him.

Sandor looked at her. “Different? And what does the little bird, my wife, have in mind that's different?” he asked her while he peered closely into her eyes. He stood there before her, so tall and broad and almost completely naked; so beautiful with all of his silvery-scars and his perfect chest hair and even the burned side of his face. It almost hurt her to look at him.

Sansa recalled the first time she had seen Sandor in the fishpond, and what he had been doing then—the memory of it making her womanhood throb even harder now, pleasure coiling deep below her tummy. “I . . .” Sansa paused, feeling her face burn with embarrassment. “I- I would like to see you stroke yourself to release,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She had only seen him pleasure himself from the back but now, she wanted to see him do it again while she looked on him.

Sandor's eyes widened in complete surprise at Sansa's words. He was startled that she would ask him to do something like this, but he found the thought of stroking himself in front of her while she looked on incredibly arousing. _Let the little bird get her pleasures by watching you_ , he thought. His cock twitched and Sandor felt a wetness seep where the tip of his member was resting against his smallcothes.

Sansa, for her part, had begun to feel foolish for asking Sandor to do such a thing, but to her relief and excitement, he silently turned away from her and approached the high backed chair that had been set in the corner of the room. He picked it up and placed it squarely at the foot of the bed.

“Sit on the edge of the bed, Sansa,” he said, his voice already low and hoarse.

Sansa did as he told her and Sandor hurriedly took off his smallclothes and sat himself down in the chair, slumping against its back and sprawling his legs open, giving her a full view of his long manhood that was now resting hot and heavy against his belly, pearly fluid already smearing his stomach.

He was watching her with an expression she thought she had seen on his face once before, a long time ago. It was akin to the look that Sandor had given his brother Gregor during the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing, when he had defied The Mountain That Rides to save Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.

The look he gave her now was similar, yes, but instead of being an expression of defiance, it was transformed into a look of pure arousal.

Sansa felt a new rush of wetness seep between her legs, causing her smallclothes to cling to her uncomfortably. She looked at her husband eagerly and squirmed on the bed, rubbing her thighs together and revelling in the friction.

“So you want to see me stroke and pleasure myself until I spill my seed on my hands, do you, little bird?” Fuck him but he was already excited at the idea of doing that.

“Yes,” she admitted, licking her lips. Her chest started heaving up in her excitement.

Sandor began moving one hand over his cock, using the other to cup his balls as Sansa looked on, transfixed over his hardening manhood. He kept playing with and tugging at it, pumping it one, two, three times until it finally reached full hardness.

Sansa's head was still swimming, but now she felt that it was also in arousal. She felt her nipples stiffen underneath her bodice and a dull, pleasurable ache spread from her womanhood to the rest of her body.

As she looked on, Sandor closed one large hand over his hard shaft and began stroking himself lightly, the tip of his cock disappearing and reappearing with each slow rhythmic motion of his hand. All the while his darkened eyes remained fixed on Sansa's clear blue ones.

“Does it bring you pleasure, watching me do this little bird?” he asked Sansa as he fucked into his hand. He gave himself one long pull, and then ran his thumb along the underside of his cock, which made him shudder in white hot bliss, before he resumed stroking his stiff length; letting small grunts of pleasure escape his lips.

Sansa could only nod while she stared at what Sandor was doing; her eyes opened wide, her lips parted in want of him.

“Does it?” he asked her again. He wanted her to _say_ it.

“Yes,” Sansa answered breathlessly as she began to squirm on the bed again.

Sandor groaned, bucking his hips into his own hand as he stroked himself harder and faster, still cupping his balls with his other hand, squeezing them slightly, his eyes taking on that glazed look that he had when he was deeply aroused.

“Touch yourself, Sansa. Now,” he practically gasped.

Sansa blinked. Surely he hadn't . . .

But one look at him and she knew that he was in fact expecting her to obey. “I can't undo my laces,” she said meekly.

Sandor chuckled. “It doesn’t matter, little bird. Pile up the pillows and furs by the end of the bed so they can prop you up and you can see me. Then lift your skirts over your hips and take off your smallclothes. Touch yourself like you did in the bathtub,” he rasped. Gods he was excited.

Sansa did as he asked, quickly piling the pillows and furs in a heap, letting her smallclothes pool down on the floor around her ankles and kicking them out of the way. Then she lay back on her elbows, hitched her skirts over her waist and opened her legs, digging her heels into the edge of the thin mattress and giving Sandor an unimpeachable view of her already wet cunt as she lowered her fingers over her nub.

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “Like that, now rub your beautiful little nub, my wanton little bird,” he whispered hoarsely to her, encouraging her. “There, yes, touch your teats too, over your dress . . . yes, that's it.” He could feel himself slowly approaching that wonderful, blissful edge . . . which made him pump himself even harder, his hips now rearing off wildly over the chair, all semblance of rhythm lost.

Sandor was completely enthralled by the sight of Sansa touching her stiff and wet little nub between her legs, sliding her fingers between her slick folds, grabbing at her own teats. The sounds of her sweet moans rose into the room while he thought he’d very much like to taste her on his lips, to make her come into his mouth while he fucked her with his tongue. He felt his pleasure soaring higher than he thought possible as he watched her pleasure herself, and he stroked himself harder and faster with something that felt akin to desperation.

Sandor started squeezing his hardening balls more roughly as he rubbed his thumb over that hard part of flesh between them and his arsehole. The pressure that was building inside his cock was getting intense now and incredibly pleasurable, there was so much sticky fluid smearing his stomach and his hand he felt the entire room smelled of sex. Rubbing his thumb over the tip of his hard member, he spread the wetness over. The muscles in the lower part of his abdomen clenched hard and he knew he would soon reach his climax. He could almost taste it. “Sansa,” he panted, “do you- do you like what you’re seeing? What you’re doing?”

Sansa's eyes were darting from Sandor's face—seeing his pleasure etched over his contorted features, his lips pursed over in a moment of molten ecstasy as his breath became ragged—to his cock, which he was stroking hard and fast, his groans of pleasure louder with each stroke. She watched him as he watched her, and found herself rubbing her nub faster and faster, her pleasure building between her legs and coiling like a fire snake below her belly, her own breath coming in short gasps. Her legs began to quiver with the effort of keeping them open wide for him to see. She started rolling her hips against her fingers, her moans becoming louder with each rub over her painfully stiff nub. “Oh, yes, Sandor,” she moaned in bliss.

The sensation of touching herself while watching Sandor give himself pleasure was practically driving Sansa mad with intense arousal. She was so wet that she could feel her fluids soaking the bed sheets beneath her. The thought made her blush and moan at the same time while she slipped two long fingers inside her womanhood and started fucking herself.

A strangled noise escaped Sandor’s lips before he groaned deeply at the sight, flinging his already intense arousal even higher in glorious pleasure. _Oh fuck, the little bird is so beautiful and arousing like this_ , he thought completely entranced at the sight. _My wife . . ._

They were now panting and grunting almost in unison, and Sansa knew she would reach her peak soon. She could feel a low burning sensation in her belly as pleasure coiled, intense, powerful, uncontrollable, and it was slowly snaking its way outwards. Her toes curled . . . but Sandor was one step ahead of her.

“Oh fuck, little bird!” He gasped before he let out a guttural sound as his cock suddenly pulsed hard, his seed spilling all over his stomach and his hand in hot white spurts. His chest and stomach heaving hard, he kept stroking and pulling at himself even after his seed had stopped coming, and the look he gave her then became almost animalistic and he growled, causing Sansa's breath to hitch in her throat.

Sandor had been so aroused by the entire experience that his release had hit him sooner and harder than he had anticipated; he simply hadn’t been able to keep it at bay. But he wasn't finished with her just yet. He stood from his chair and moved himself between her long legs, leaning his weight on his good right leg as he gently pushed Sansa's upper body back onto the bed, pushing the pillows and furs aside. He placed one big hand underneath her arse cheeks and hitched her hips up—making Sansa squeal in surprise—while he once again began stroking himself, this time against her wet slit, making Sansa moan so loudly he felt it vibrate through her body.

“Sansa, my love, my wanton bird,” Sandor gasped.

“Oh, oh, OH, yes, oh, please, yes,” was all Sansa could manage to say, her hands softly caressing the fine hair that covered Sandor's muscular chest and hard stomach, feeling his hand fucking himself against her. For a moment she lay there with her eyes closed in total abandon, simply enjoying the intense feelings that she was experiencing, before finally moving her hands, running them up and down his strong, sinewy arms, feeling his muscles working underneath his warm skin and caressing his broad shoulders before raising her head to slowly lick Sandor’s left nipple. She felt it harden under her tongue and responded by grazing her teeth over it; he tasted like sweat and salt and it elicited a low growl from him in response to her ministrations. She didn’t know if it was unladylike to do this but she liked it, liked making Sandor react so strongly to her touch.

In a few short moments he was so hard again for her, for Sansa, and with a roar that rumbled from deep within his chest and a push of his hips he entered her in one swift stroke. The tightness of his little bird around his cock making pleasure crawl up his spine like a bolt of lightning. Pure lust tingled throughout his entire body.

“Sandor!” Sansa breathed in a throaty moan, but it was already too late for her; she had been teetering so close to the edge of her own release now that she came around him the instant he fucked into her, her inner muscles clenching rapidly around his hard cock, her body convulsing wildly and her moans so loud they were ringing in the room while her hands frantically caressed and scratched at Sandor’s hard body in the throes of her release.

“That’s it Sansa, come for me little bird,” Sandor moaned.

While Sansa drifted down slowly from her peak, her body rippled by little aftershocks, Sandor continued to fuck into her, grunting, one hand grasping at her breasts though they were still trapped inside her gown. Somehow, though, Sandor managed to release part of her left breast and its stiff pink nipple poked out over the hem of her dress. He mimicked her earlier movements, by licking and biting at her and sending white-hot stabs of pleasure through her body.

She wrapped her long legs around his hips and started moving in time with him, all the while staring intently into his face which was contorted in pleasure as he grunted with every roll of her hips against his and with every thrust of his rock-hard cock. The sound and feel of his manhood moving in and out of her wetly was sending shots of raw bliss through her.

The knowledge that she was the cause of his desire slowly pushed Sansa over that blessed edge once again and this time, after grinding their hips together hard and fast and with a few more deep thrust on Sandor’s part, they reached their peak together, moaning each other’s names over and over again while Sandor fisted Sansa’s long hair with his left hand, sending more chills tingling through her entire body. Their hearts were beating and thumping so hard Sansa thought that all of Westeros must be able to hear them.

Sandor lowered his face to hers and kissed her slowly, his lips moving softly over her mouth and sucking and nibbling, his tongue gently sliding against hers, his teeth nipping at her affectionately. Sansa sighed and let her fingertips roam tentatively over the burnt right side of his face again, pushing a few strands of his damp hair aside as she gently mapped the scars that covered him from the top of his scalp to what was left of his ear, and then down to the back side of his neck. He remained unmoving, letting her touch him as he looked at her with heavily lidded eyes and slightly parted lips. As she watched him now, his dark brown eyes focused on her blue ones, his breath still coming in fast and ragged, the only thing she felt was pure love for him, this hard man who'd become so soft while in her arms and her embrace.

Sandor was sprawled limply over his wife, sated, but trying not to crush her with his immense body. He lay there for a long while before finally rolling onto his side. He brushed his knuckles over her freed left nipple; it became a hard little peak again and he heard her breathing become ragged as well. Looking into her beautiful blue eyes . . . caressing her long hair, which was in completely disarray around her heart-shaped face . . . watching her luscious lips as they parted slightly . . . Sandor was suddenly overwhelmed by the intense love he felt for her.

He had never felt this way about anyone before, though the closest emotions he could recall were those he’d felt for his little sister. But she’d died mysteriously, at a very young age, and after that he’d felt only hatred. Hatred toward the father who hadn’t protected Sandor from Gregor, hatred toward Gregor for being a bully and burning his face off, hatred for knights because Gregor had become one and because they were hypocrites the whole lot of them . . . even hatred for the mother who had stood idly by all those years and then died as suddenly and mysteriously as Sandor’s sister had.

Truth be told, he’d hated nearly everyone—until a chirping little bird had arrived from the north. She’d been placed in her gilded cage in King’s Landing, and somehow she’d made her mark on him, old, scarred, ugly dog that he was. _Not a dog_ , he sighed again. Somehow, she’d lessened some of his hatred.

Still, the intensity of his feelings for Sansa surprised him, felt strange to him . . . but he knew that he and his wife had the rest of their lives together, plenty of time for her to teach him all about this wonderful feeling. This knowledge made him feel . . . safe. And happy. Feelings so strange and unlikely to him that he had a hard time trusting them.

He turned to his wife and began tugging at the laces that held the silk fabric of her dress together, causing Sansa to giggle. “I believe,” he said, his voice hoarse again “That _that_ deserves an encore. But this time, I want my wife to be fully naked.”


	17. Sandor 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa try to leave the Quiet Isle. Will Alayne's guards find them out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my wonderful Beta girloficenfire made this new chapter better than it was. I can never thank her enough <3

**CHAPTER 17: SANDOR 10**

“Wake up little bird, wake up,” Sandor whispered urgently into his wife's ear, gently nudging at Sansa to drag her from her deep, dream-filled sleep.  She had been talking in her sleep, mumbling things he hadn’t understood.

Sansa yawned and opened her sleep-heavy Tully-blue eyes. “Is it dawn yet?” she said as she stretched like a cat, one of her wonderful teats appearing over the hem of a bed sheet.

“Almost,” Sandor replied as he stared at her, at it. He was dressed head-to-toe in his old chainmail armor.

Sansa blinked uncomprehendingly. “Why are you all dressed in armor? How did you get your armor back?” she asked as she rubbed her eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them.

“The Elder Brother kept it for me,” he chuckled. “He thought I would need it.” Truth be told, the former soldier always surprised Sandor in everything he did.

Sandor buckled his side-sword to his hip. His two-handed longsword was already hanging against his back, his katar nudged at the front of his belt whilst a brand-new dagger with a ruby incrusted hilt—a gift from the Elder Brother—graced his other hip.

The only thing missing was his snarling dog helm, but Sandor had settled for a new, simple helm instead. It was a piece of armor that told nothing about him or his past. Besides, someone else had gotten their hands on the Hound’s helm after it was left behind on the banks of the Trident where he laid dying, when the Elder Brother brought Sandor to the Quiet Isle—someone who had then committed atrocities in his name. Sandor mentally made the promise that he would find the fucker who did all this and would kill him slowly, very _very_ slowly. _I had warned the holy man against leaving it there besides. But did he listen to me?_

Sandor felt strange wearing armor for the first time in almost two years. The cold metallic feel of it over his body no longer felt comfortable; rather, he felt somehow clumsy in it, the armor felt clunky. But he knew these feelings would pass, and the wearing of chainmail and solid steel over hard-boiled leather would eventually once again be as natural to him as the wearing of a simple homespun brother’s robe had become. Not that he had ever felt comfortable in that blasted garment; Sandor felt he was well rid of it. Brothers' robes and the life of the religious did not suit him at all. Armor was much more to his liking.

“I have already saddled Stranger while you were sleeping.” He smirked Sansa’s way. “The Elder Brother has readied a mare for you. We're to leave the Quiet Isle as quickly and quietly as we can.” His tone was urgent. It wouldn't do to linger too long in case Sansa's—or rather, Alayne's—guards woke from their very drunken sleep earlier than expected to find that their charge had disappeared. Sandor knew Myranda Royce and the Elder Brother had done their best to keep the five men supplied with plenty of good wine and mead from the Quiet Isle's cellars the night before, but these men were soldiers. Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps they were used to drinking copious amounts of wine yet still being able to perform their duties bright and early the next morning, just as he had been used to doing in King’s Landing.

Sandor saw Sansa roll out of bed, still naked from last night's lovemaking, her hair a mess of brownish-red strands that fell to her teats and shoulders. _Gods she is so beautiful . . . I still can't believe she chose me_ , Sandor mused, still amazed that Sansa was truly in love with him. She quickly pulled on a shift and some smallclothes, drawing a simple dress of brown lambswool over her head and then wrapping herself in a sleeveless overcoat trimmed with white fox fur before clasping on a warm grey woollen cloak about her shoulders with a silver broach. Once Sansa was dressed and she had untangled and brushed her hair, making it up in the northern style, she gathered the few clothing items left to her and stuffed them hurriedly into the saddlebags that Sandor had left on the high backed wooden chair.

Meanwhile, Sandor peered intently through the crack in the driftwood door which was slightly ajar. He scanned to the left and the right for any sign of movement around Sansa’s cottage. It was still full dark, and the stars were shining, but thankfully the moon was hidden. This would certainly help them not be detected as they left the Isle.

“We’ll have to make our way to the south-eastern edge of the island, little bird. Brother Hubert is waiting there for us, with our horses. He will bring us across the Bay of Crabs on the ferry and leave us on the north bank. From there we'll have to ride hard to Gulltown since boats no longer stop at Saltpans. Might be we’ll get lucky and we’ll be able to catch one in one of the fishing villages and holdfasts scattered along the bank unless those too have been ravaged. _If_ Wickenden has been spared might be we can catch a ship there. If not, we’ll have to take a boat north to White Harbor and then sail up the White Knife to avoid the King’s Road, and then ride directly to Winterfell and avoid Moat Cailin entirely which would be preferable since we have no army it’s almost impregnable and is now in the hands of those fucking Ironborns.” Sandor looked at his wife who suddenly seemed to be rooted to the spot.

Sansa sucked in her breath. “I believe Petyr had some business in Gulltown,” she admitted to Sandor. “He might very well still be there.”

Sandor crossed the room to Sansa’s side and took his wife by the shoulders. “It cannot be helped, Sansa. We need to make our way north as quick as we can,” he rasped, and then he held her tight to him. “Besides, I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep you safe, remember?” He dropped a light kiss on the top of his wife's head, marvelling at how much change Sansa had already wrought in him.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his waist. “I know you will,” she almost whispered. But as soon as the words left her mouth, Sandor saw her bite at her lower lip.

“What is it little bird?”

He felt his wife tense against him for several long moments before raising her face to look him directly in the eye. “We cannot go to Winterfell yet,” she simply said.

“Why not?” was Sandor's surprised reply. “Why change your mind now, Sansa?” Seeing that his wife seemed to hesitate again he added quickly, “We can’t go to Clegane’s Keep—that would not be the best or wisest course of action but, if you like, we could go south to Dorne . . . Prince Doran Martell has no love for the Lannisters. Or Petyr Baelish. You'd be safe, little bird. If that's what you want.”

Sansa looked deep into Sandor's eyes and shook her head. “But you wouldn't. You are still brother to the man who raped and murdered his beloved sister Elia and her babes.”

Sandor brushed his calloused fingers alongside Sansa’s jaw. “Gregor is dead little bird. And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows how much I hated my brother. I don't think Prince Doran would hold my brother's _knightly_ deeds against me,” he rasped bitterly.

“All I know is that we can't go to Winterfell, my love.” Sandor saw her hesitate and look away for a moment. “I had a dream . . . A- about my father. And in the dream he told me not to go north to Winterfell. At least not yet.”

Sandor was surprised. “You trust some dream? Why was it telling you not to go north? Where was your father telling you to go, Sansa?” Sandor didn’t quite believe in greensight and prophetic dreams, but then he'd seen Thoros of Myr make swords blaze with fire . . . he'd seen Beric Dondarrion brought back from the dead . . . stories from across the Narrow Sea claimed that dragons lived again . . . and something in Sansa's tone made him pay attention to what she had to say. He watched her intently until suddenly she raised herself on tiptoe so that she could peer closely into his face.

“We're going to the Vale, my love, as fast and as secretly as we can fly there. We're going to rat Petyr out and save my little cousin Robert, Petyr won’t expect us to go to the Vale. He’ll expect us to either go north or south or even across the Narrow Sea to Essos. Myranda will tell her father, Lord Nestor Royce, everything that Petyr Baelish has done—murdering my aunt Lysa, attempting to kill my sweet cousin, planning to wed me to Harry the Heir and then murder him, hoping to marry me himself, declaring me to be Sansa Stark the Queen in the North. All of the other lords of the Vale will listen to Lord Nestor, I know it Sandor.”

She paused for a brief instant, her eyes shining in the darkness, before continuing. “And once they know everything Petyr has done or planned to do, the lords of the Vale will unite against him. They’ll throw him out, or try to kill him, and I will be there to make sure that Littlefinger doesn’t escape with his life.” She drew in a deep breath. “Can you trust me in this, my love?” She looked him in the eye again. “Besides, you know I need an army. And there it is, waiting for me in the Vale.”

_Fuck me, I’ve never seen the little bird so sure of herself as she is now_ , he mused. Then, “Yes,” was all Sandor could think to say in response.

*****

Sandor and Sansa made their way slowly out of the cottage compound and headed to the southeastern bank of the Quiet Isle as quietly as they could, which was no easy feat with Sandor's armor. He grumbled something about it being a stupid idea to have worn his bloody armor. _It truly is stupid. Seven hells, I’m no longer used to this no matter how hard I was training again. Thankfully, the compound is empty so no one should be able hear us._ Sandor truly hoped it was true.

Still, all of Sandor's old warrior instincts were on full alert, his right hand resting on the pommel of his sword, and his left hand grasping the scabbard, at the ready. Each time he heard a queer sound he forced them to stop and remain still until he felt it was safe to be on the move again. _That sounded like a hare . . . that’s only the wind . . . and that’s a fucking nightingale_.

His little bird was keeping as quiet as a mouse, following her husband's instructions to the letter. He assumed that she was completely terrified of getting caught. _If we do get caught, I’ll have to fight. But I’ll protect the little bird until my dying breath,_ he thought fiercely.

In the distance, they could see the faint glimmer of the ferry's lamp on the banks of the river. But instead of the light flicking off and on—the signal they had all agreed upon—it was shining brightly and steadily in the darkness of the night.

“Shit, something’s wrong,” Sandor breathed, worried. _That was not the signal we agreed upon. Have we been found out by Baelish’s guards?_ There was only one way to find out. They had to make their way cautiously to the ferry and Sandor almost knew what they would probably find there. _We’ll find Brother Hubert dead, most likely. Fuck._

“What- what is it?” Sansa whispered.

“Little bird, stay at my back and keep close to me. Don't leave my side for one moment unless I tell you to. Do you understand?” Sandor’s pulse started to quicken and a jolt of adrenaline suddenly rushed through him. He wasn’t scared for himself but he was scared for Sansa, and he’d be damned if he couldn’t protect the woman he loved. Whoever did this, and Sandor already knew who it would be, they were already dead men. He would make sure of it.

Sansa nodded meekly, her eyes opened wide in fright.

Sandor advanced toward the light slowly, his eyes darting everywhere. He slowly unsheathed his side sword from its scabbard as quietly as he could, moving into a battle-ready stance. He could hear his blood pumping in his ears in time with his pounding heart, and was worried that this would keep him from being able to hear anything out of the ordinary.

As they approached the ferry Sandor could see a skittish Stranger tethered nearby. Beside his restless large black courser a bay mare was also moving around nervously at the end of her lead, and at the edge of the water laid the silent brother who had been waiting to help them in their escape. Brother Hubert was face-down in the bay and quite obviously dead, his body bobbing in the water like a cork; beside him, slumped over the edge of the ferry, was the limp white form of Myranda Royce.

Sansa opened her mouth to scream but Sandor quickly stifled the noise, bringing his gloved hand over his wife's mouth. “Little bird, I need you to shut the fuck up,” he hissed low in his throat.

Suddenly Sandor heard a shout, and in an instant the five knights of Alayne Stone's guard, Petyr Baelish's sworn men, had surrounded Sandor and Sansa. It all happened too fast for Sandor to plan an escape. He had no choice but to stand his ground and fight.

“Sansa, little bird” he said calmly as his eyes took in the five guards wearing the colors of the Vale—steel chainmail and silvered armor, a steel helm with a blue-grey cloak clasped about their shoulders, and a round blue shield emblazoned with the flying Arryn Eagle and a white crescent moon—and where they were situated in regards to them. The water was almost lapping at their back and there were no guard behind them for now. Good. He needed to keep it that way. “Get down on the ground and try to stay out of my way,” he added, rasping.

Sansa hurriedly obeyed him and she laid low several feet behind him to allow him a wide girth so he could fight the guards and keep well out of his way. _That’s my girl_ , he thought.

Ser Hugh Mance strutted forward, planting himself squarely in front of Sandor and raising a flickering torch to his face. Sandor’s head flinched back at the proximity of the flames and he growled low in his throat, glowering murderously at the young knight. He was going to enjoy killing this little fuck first.

“Well if it isn't the Lannisters' infamous guard dog, the Hound,” Ser Hugh laughed in Sandor's face. “The one who deserted his men, the Kingsguard, and his King during the Battle of the Blackwater! Imagine my surprise when Randa told me that you were here on the Quiet Isle, ser. Everyone thought you either dead or a craven out raping innocent women and children.”

“I'm no ser,” Sandor spat back. “And I have nothing to do with the raping of those innocent women and children. You’re taking me for someone else, _ser_ , don’t put other people’s crimes at my feet. And if I were you, I'd get out of my way before I strangle you with your own guts.”

Sandor was getting properly mad at the little fuck in front of him for so many reasons right now. For killing poor Brother Hubert, whom he knew had been a kind man who had lost his wife and children so many years ago during the Battle of the Trident, before finding peace in the Faith and worship of the Seven. For perhaps even killing Myranda Royce, Sansa’s friend and a woman who had been kindness itself to his little bird. He felt himself simmer with a pure, blinding rage, his blood boiling in his veins with hatred.

And then Ser Hugh only laughed in that way that men of youth who believe in their own immortality do, riling him no end. _Big mistake_ , Sandor thought.

“We are five highly trained men here, _ser_ ” the little fuck had the gall to tell him with a self-sufficient smirk on his face.

_There he goes again with his ser. The little shit's really trying to anger me_. Sandor was glaring hard at him.  He wanted to bash the man’s face in so badly his fingers were itching around his sword hilt.

Then Ser Hugh continued. “Five of the best knights from the Vale, while you are only one man, and an old dog at that.” He started laughing and the others laughed with him.

Sandor stood quiet and glanced at Ser Marq Ryder, the portly older night who had been trying to chat up Sansa during last night’s feast. This one was standing nervously off to the left. Sandor smirked, then turned his full attention back to Ser Hugh (though of course he had never quit paying attention to that man entirely) and chuckled darkly. “I've had worse odds, _ser_.” Sandor growled at him. Seven hells but his hatred of knights ran deep. Especially of little shits like this young one. “Look around you, _boy_ , I’m the terror here.” _And besides_ , he thought, _surely you’re all drunk enough on wine and mead to make killing you a lot easier on me_.

From the corner of his eye he saw the sudden glint of a blade and all of his warrior instincts immediately kicked in. In a fluid movement that belied a man of his size, Sandor brought his sword down through Ser Hugh's upper right shoulder all the way down to his chest, biting through steel plate and chain mail, nearly cleaving the man in two. For a brief, fleeting moment, Ser Hugh actually looked surprised—and then he collapsed and died at Sandor’s feet, a pool of blood already forming on the half-frozen ground.

The other knights immediately leapt into action, rushing forward to fight him.

Sandor spun on his left foot to parry a thrust from Ser Marq, kicking out at the man with his right leg and sending him sprawling to the cold hard ground. Then Sandor had to twist to his right to stop another knight's thrust, blocking it with a loud clang of steel on steel. He quickly spun his sword again, as fast as lightening, taking that man’s head clean off. It rolled a few feet away from the slumping body, blood spurting out of its severed neck and spraying over Sandor’s face and pauldron.

But then the biggest of Alayne Stone's guards, a hulking man almost as tall and broad as Sandor himself, initiated a deadly dance of thrust and parry with him. His sword swung down hard over Sandor’s upward parry and for a moment Sandor reeled, his left leg almost buckling underneath him. Shit. This man was strong, as strong as Sandor, but Sandor was faster. After a flurry of swordplay, the clang of steel on steel ringing in the night again and again and again in a sweet song of swords, he finally slit open the knight's throat with one powerful stroke of his sword, and Sandor roared his victory as the other man died, gurgling and holding a gloved hand to his throat in a vain attempt to keep the wound closed as scarlet blood gushed unquenched to the ground, seeping out of the man’s grisly wound.

Suddenly Ser Marq, the knight whom Sandor had shoved to the ground, managed to scramble to his feet. The other man stabbed wildly, embedding the knife he'd produced deep in Sandor’s left thigh. In his rage Sandor simply closed his right hand around the man’s throat, bodily lifting Ser Marq off the ground. With his left hand and a hard grunt Sandor removed the knife that was jutting from his leg and used it to swiftly disembowel the man as his bleeding guts fell to the ground in a warm bloody heap.

While Ser Marq died at his feet, Sandor failed to notice that the fifth knight—a man with a weasel face, a bushy straw colored beard and a lazy eye—had remained behind and was now making for Sansa who screamed. He swiftly turned toward the little bird while his heart suddenly fell to the pit of his stomach. _Sansa, fuck, she’s in danger._

His little bird had retreated further back, closer to the water line, but in his haste to reach her the knight too had forgotten about Sandor. That was the man’s last mistake. Limping badly, he quickly made his way toward the knight and Sandor's sword pierced him through and through in an upward swing of his sword, from the small of his back up to his throat, before he could come close enough to his little bird to hurt her. The dead knight slumped at Sansa’s feet as she screamed again.

“You're all right now little bird, you're all right,” Sandor said, an exact repetition of the words he'd used when he'd saved Sansa from her would-be rapists during the bread riots of King's Landing. But before he could reach her, Sandor's left leg buckled underneath him and he found himself half kneeling on the ground, panting hard and grunting in pain.

“Sandor!” Sansa shrieked, rushing toward him and wrapping her arms around him. She tried to help him rise up again but he knew he was far too heavy for her to handle on her own . . . Sandor was trying to soothe her again, trying to tell her he was fine but he couldn’t speak: the pain was excruciating.

Suddenly, Sandor felt that a second pair of strong arms found themselves supporting him on the other side. It was the Elder Brother, who admitted that he had followed them all of the way from Sansa's cottage. He was soon followed by Septon Meribald and Dog who came bounding and barking as it went to sniff and growl at the five guards’ dead bodies.

“I had a feeling that there would be some problems,” the Elder Brother told them as he and Septon Meribald helped a panting, wincing Sandor to sit onto the ferry.

“Thank the Seven, the lady Myranda Royce is still alive,” Sandor then heard Septon Meribald say as if from a great distance. Blood was seeping heavily from Sandor’s wound.

The Elder Brother looked at Sandor kindly. “I decided to keep a close eye on the guards; I had a feeling that they weren't as drunk as they wanted us to believe. Brother Yan who keeps the ravens caught one that they were trying to send to Lord Baelish. I haven’t had time to read the message, but I think we can be thankful that it did not leave the Isle.” After glancing at Sandor again, the Elder Brother turned and spoke to Sansa. “We need to treat this wound now my lady.”

Sansa nodded in agreement, worry and fear etched plainly on her beautiful pale face. “Sandor,” he heard his little bird say. “Can you walk back to the septry?”

Sandor grunted in pain. “Is nothing a little wine can't cure,” he mumbled a bit deliriously.

“It is your bad leg, Brother Digger. We need to get you back to your cell and take care of this wound – now.”

Seven bleeding buggering hells, why did the Elder Brother’s voice sound so damn urgent? It was nothing. Sandor had received many a wound in his life as a fighter and a warrior, there was no need to fuss over him like a mother fussed over her small children. What could a little knife wound really do to him anyways?

Sandor grunted again and passed out.


	18. Sansa 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sansa and Sandor leave the Quiet Isle, they are not out of danger yet as Sandor's wound worries Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful Beta girloficenfire who once again did a wonderful job in making the chapter better. As always all my love and gratitude.

**CHAPTER 18: SANSA 10**

Sansa could not help but fuss over Sandor.

Her beloved husband and non-Ser was still under a deep heavy sleep brought on by the milk of the poppy. The maester of House Grafton in Gulltown, a friend to the Elder Brother, had told her to give it to him regularly. His knife wound was healing nicely, though. She knew she had to thank the Elder Brother’s quick thinking, healing poultices _and_ his healing hands if stories were to be believed, for saving Sandor’s life. Soon, she would be able to replace the milk of the poppy with a bit of dream wine. Sandor would wake, then, groggy but nearly mended.

Sansa was also thankful to the old gods and the new that her best friend Randa was still alive. The Elder Brother had finally decided that it was still best for the three of them (Randa too was to leave now, being dangerous for her as well) to leave the Quiet Isle, even though the immediate threat of the five guards had been swiftly removed by Sandor, even though Sandor himself was wounded and in no real shape to travel. The Elder Brother feared that Petyr Baelish would grow suspicious when he did not hear from Alayne’s guards; though they had only sent word of their arrival on the Quiet Isle to the Lord Protector of the Vale during their short stay on the Isle, it was best to err on the side of safety. As a ruse, the former soldier sent a raven to the Gates of the Moon pretending to be from Ser Hugh, saying all was well with their charge and that they would be heading home after a few more days’ rest.

So it was that Sansa, Randa, and a drugged-up-to-his-eyeballs and delirious Sandor, had boarded the ferry a day later than planned and made their way first to Saltpans, and then were lucky enough to find a small ship in the next village to take them to Gulltown. The trek had been particularly arduous since Sandor was so heavy to move and was kept almost unconscious for the entire voyage.

Thankfully, they were accompanied on the journey by a few silent brothers and Septon Meribald (and Dog) who helped carry Sandor. Once they reached the city, they took shelter in a rather seedy inn called the Black Eel, and there they had remained for the past week, Randa in one room and Sansa and Sandor in another. The silent brothers who had accompanied them and Septon Meribald then parted ways, and a grateful Sansa kissed the wandering septon on the cheek and gave one last fierce hug to Dog.

The innkeep, a close friend of Septon Meribald, was also well paid to board, feed them, and also look the other way. It wouldn’t do if Petyr Baelish learned that his beloved daughter ‘Alayne’ was in Gulltown in the company of the former Lannister Hound—and newly married to him—to boot.

Before they had left the Quiet Isle, Randa had explained to Sansa that on the night of the feast, not long after Sansa had left the septry with Sandor, Ser Hugh Mance had taken her outside the hall for what Randa had expected to be a fuck back in his cell. He’d been all charms and smiles the entire time, all the while fondling and kissing her while she’d already taken out his cock to suck on it when suddenly Ser Hugh had brought his knife to Randa’s throat and had forced her to reveal everything to him. “I tried to keep quiet but I could feel the blade biting into my skin, I felt him draw blood and I was afraid,” Randa told Sansa, her eyes cast down, her hand going to the small, red cut on her neck. Sansa gave her friend's hand a little squeeze.

Ser Hugh had grown suspicious; Randa continued to explain to her friend. He'd seen Sansa walk into the stable earlier that day, and though at first he had thought nothing of it, he took note of how much time passed before she had finally exited the building. She’d been in a bit of disarray and had a tall broad man in tow minutes later, and Ser Hugh had drawn his own conclusions. He had merely wanted Randa to confirm them and once she had, Ser Hugh hit her over the head, bound and gagged her, and next she knew she came to on the ferry right after Sandor had killed all of the guards.

“I am so, so sorry, Sansa,” Myranda Royce whispered to her friend, tears in her eyes. Sansa could see how Randa was completely miserable.

Sansa gave Randa’s hand a hard squeeze. “It wasn't your fault, Randa. Your life was in danger. Ser Hugh turned out to be no true knight,” was all that Sansa could say in response. She knew everything about false knights, thanks to Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount and the memories of their repeated beatings of her. Ser Hugh Mance, Ser Marq Ryder and the others had been no true knights either even though they were knights of the Vale who had been loyal to Petyr, all of them bought by his gold, no doubt. Sansa remembered what Sandor had once told her. “What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it's all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing.” _How right were you, my love._

Sansa still hoped that the rest of them would chose to serve her when she finally made her move at the Gates of the Moon against Littlefinger and revealed herself to be Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North. Sansa wondered if she’d also be able to count on the support of the three hedge knights Petyr had employed in his service—Ser Byron, Ser Morgath and Ser Shadrich—and if they would actually follow her . . . or follow Petyr in a deep, dark dungeon.

She had then wrapped her arms around the shoulders of her sobbing best friend. “You must send a raven to your father, Randa, and tell him everything that has happened. Tell him we'll be on our way shortly, as soon as Sandor is better, and ask him if Petyr is back at the Gates of the Moon. Lord Nestor must act as if nothing is amiss. We do not want Littlefinger to hear of our plans and escape right under our noses. Though by now he will know something is amiss and will have men searching for me. For us. We need him, _I_ need him, alive, rather than dead.”

Randa stood up straight after sniffling one last time and looked at Sansa with a steely resolve in her eyes. “I will send the message to my father right now. The Eyrie and the Vale will be freed of Littlefinger, and the true Lord Protectors of the Vale shall take his place, for the good of House Arryn, for the good of the Vale, and for the good of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“What true Lord Protectors of the Vale?” Sansa asked, vaguely fearing the answer her friend would give.

“Why, the Lady Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North and cousin to Robert Arryn, who is the true Lord of the Vale, with her sworn shield and husband, Sandor Clegane, Lord of Winterfell, by her side.”

Sansa took in a sharp inhale of breath at Randa’s words, and then her shoulders slumped a little. “If Sandor lives,” Sansa suddenly murmured, with tears in her eyes.

*****

On their tenth day at the inn of the Black Eel, Maester Sulymon—a middle-aged man lean and long and even taller than Sandor was (in fact, the man was as tall as Sandor’s now-dead brother Gregor, the Mountain That Rides, had been though not as large) fresh from the Citadel in Oldtown who had once been a silent brother on the Quiet Isle before he found his calling as a maester—told Sansa to stop giving her husband milk of the poppy. Sandor’s wound was healing quite nicely and some dream wine would now be better for him.

The news was a relief to Sansa, who had feared for Sandor's well-being as well as his life. She knew how addictive milk of the poppy could be, having seen its effects first-hand on her young cousin Robert. “Thank you, Maester Sulymon,” Sansa said to the maester who reddened slightly before stroking the maester’s heavy chain surrounding his neck almost absent-mindedly. It looked to Sansa a heavy thing and was made of many metal links.

“It was my pleasure, Lady Sansa, all for the Queen in the North.” He bowed low to Sansa who was taken aback by the maester’s show of courtesy and for calling her by her title of ‘Queen in the North.’ Sansa didn’t feel like a queen, but she had always promised herself that when and if she’d become queen, she should strive to make her subjects love her. _That was a lifetime ago, when I was in King’s Landing, and I was to marry Joffrey and be his queen. Now I am Sandor’s wife and I don’t need a kingdom. I only need him. But I cannot turn my back on my family’s legacy, on Winterfell. I am a Stark after all, and Winter is Coming._

“Thank you,” she said again warmly, and took both of his hands in hers. “Thank you for helping save my husband. I will not forget it.”

“There are many who would welcome the return of the rightful Queen in the North, my lady,” Maester Sulymon added. “We all pray to the Seven and some to the old gods in their godswoods for the fall of House Bolton. That Ramsay Snow or rather Bolton now is a man of many perversions and evils. He and his father, Lord Roose Bolton, must be crushed—and so do the ironborns—and the north rightfully returned to a Stark of Winterfell. The rumor was, my lady, that the bastard’s wife, Arya, was not your true sister?”

“Yes,” Sansa said. “I have heard it so too. I fear that the Lady Arya was in truth my old friend, Jeyne Poole. And I am thankful for her escape . . .” Sansa demurely lowered her eyes and spoke no more of it. Her ‘father’ Lord Petyr had told her of what had happened before she left for the Quiet Isle. And it disturbed Sansa more than she could say. She had heard it tell that Jeyne had escaped the clutches of her husband, Ramsay Bolton, and Winterfell, with the help of her father’s former ward, Theon Greyjoy, and that they were now both in the hands of Stannis Baratheon.

Sansa was thankful to Theon for saving Jeyne, but she also hated him for ultimately betraying her brother Robb and for having her little brothers Bran and Rickon murdered. _They were children, and they were powerless, and Theon killed them without a second thought. Theon, who was raised as one of us ever since my father, Lord Eddard Stark, took him back with him to be brought up as a ward of Winterfell. Theon, who shared in our children’s games._

Sansa herself had never been close to Theon, but her brother Robb had. They had been as close as true brothers. She could only imagine the depth and sting of betrayal Robb felt when Theon became a turncloak, betraying the people who had taken him in, even if Theon had been as much a hostage as a ward, and took Winterfell from her family. No wonder Robb had wanted his head. But it was Robb who had died and had lost his head after Theon vanished, until he turned up again as Ramsay Bolton’s plaything, a pale shadow of the man he had been. One they had called Reek.

And then there was Arya. Sansa didn’t know if her wild little sister was still alive or dead. And if she was still alive, then where was she? Sansa was afraid for her, and she promised herself that she would find her sister as soon as she had the power to do so. Once she dealt with Littlefinger.

Maester Sulymon bowed deeply again and left her with a still-sleeping Sandor. She looked at the man she loved, sleeping in the large bed, the strongest man she had ever known and yet oh-so-vulnerable right now.

So instead of giving him his regular dose of the milk of the poppy, Sansa now gave Sandor a bit of the dream wine and prayed to both the old gods and the new that he would start waking up soon.

Sansa then went down to the kitchens to ask the innkeep for a washbasin filled with hot water, some clean cloth and some soap to be brought up to her room as well as a bit of food. Once it was brought to her, Sansa ate the stew the innkeep’s wife had prepared; it was rabbit and onion’s and sweet potatoes with leek, she then had some grapes and dates, and a warm loaf of bread and washed it all down with watered down wine. She then washed her hands and her face and cleaned her teeth with a twig and crushed mint leaves before turning her attention to Sandor.

After cleaning his wound and changing the dressing, Sansa then washed her husband’s body—and still found herself blushing furiously when she had to clean his long manhood—Sansa took off all her clothes and slipped under the covers to wrap her arms around her husband and sleep naked next to him as she had been doing ever since they had arrived in Gulltown.

But tonight, instead of going to sleep nestled warmly against Sandor, she began lightly trailing her fingertips over her husband's naked form. The fire was still blazing in the fireplace, casting a golden glow inside the room, keeping it warm, and she could see all of her husband's wonderful skin—scarred and unscarred—and feel the strong, hard muscles underneath. She loved to follow the trail of fine chest hair down to his groin area, as far down as his soft member which was lying hot and heavy over his stomach, and then back up to his chest again, playing with his hair there and repeating the motion over and over again while showering his face, neck, and chest with light, warm open-mouthed kisses.

This time, though, when her fingers neared his manhood she felt it slowly grow hard. Surprised, she looked up at her husband's face, only to find that he was still asleep. She hesitated for just a moment before deciding to take him in hand, feeling the excitement build within her and a rush of wetness seeping from her womanhood and dampening her thighs.

She began stroking him, watching in fascination as his member slowly but surely grew to its full length and hardness. She looked up again, but Sandor still seemed to be deeply asleep, the regular rise and fall of his chest a reassuring sight to her.

Sansa decided to try something else.

Tossing the bed sheets and furs out of the way, and carefully avoiding Sandor’s left thigh, Sansa straddled her husband. She felt a tiny pang of guilt at using Sandor this way, but at the same time the illicit gesture caused a new jolt of excitement to course through her and pool deep down in her belly and it made her womanhood start to ache pleasurably.

With his hard _cock_ now standing erect behind her buttocks, she slowly raised herself up, steadying herself with her right hand by laying it lightly over Sandor's chest. Then she moved her left hand behind her back and took a firm hold of Sandor's stiff member, placing it against her wet slit. Closing her eyes, Sansa lowered herself onto his hard manhood in one slow pleasurable motion, shuddering in pure pleasure as she sank down on him. Feeling his hard manhood fill her up blissfully.

Once his entire length was inside of her, Sansa opened her eyes again to see if Sandor had woken—but he'd stayed resolutely asleep.

Undeterred, Sansa began rocking herself back and forth over his hips and his groin, still being careful of his wound, feeling her pleasure build as her nub received full friction. She could feel her breasts bouncing with the rhythmic motion of her hips, and she threw her head back so that her long hair spilled over Sandor's thighs. Opening her mouth in a silent O of pleasure, she raised her right hand up to pinch and roll her hard nipples with her fingertips.

As she increased the motion while she felt her pleasure increase inside her, coiling directly below her tummy, soft moans escaping her lips, she suddenly heard a groggy voice call out. “Fuck me . . . I must be dead . . . and this must be one of the seven heavens the septons keep rambling on and on about . . .”

Sansa let out a small shriek of pure happiness as she looked down at her husband’s face, discovering that he was now, to all intents and purposes, awake. She could see that his eyes were shining, perhaps still with a bit of fever?

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his chest, which had started heaving in time with his own pleasure. “Sandor, my love, you are finally awake.”

“It appears I am,” he replied cheekily, and then he chuckled. “Thanks to your . . . dutiful ministrations, little bird. But please . . . don't stop on my account.” He managed to look smug despite the drugs still in his system.

Sansa gazed down at him, happy tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “You could have died,” was all she managed to say and then she hugged him to her, salty tears now running freely down her cheeks and over Sandor’s chest. All very unladylike, she thought, but Sansa did not care to be a lady right now, just her husband’s loving wife.

“Well I didn't, obviously. And now . . . if you could be so gentle and ladylike as to continue riding your sworn shield and husband . . . the way you were just doing . . . so that he can take his pleasure . . . it would be most appreciated,” he slurred heavily.

Sansa hungrily covered his mouth with hers, kissing him deeply, almost desperately, only breaking the kiss to sit carefully back over him and start rocking her hips against his again, feeling a renewed, desperate need for him, moaning loudly at the incredible pleasure she was experiencing with him deep inside her.

Sandor’s hands slowly moved from her thighs and then to her hips, before moving up to her breasts and he caressed them in a fumbling but oddly endearing manner. “My beautiful Sansa,” he murmured groggily. “You can bring a man back from the brink of the seven hells and set him right up in the seven heavens . . .” Sandor had reached his large, warm hands to her bottom and he was grasping at her butt cheeks, stroking her there with calloused fingers and making her skin rise in wonderful goose prickles.

His words seemed to have a special effect on Sansa, and she felt herself once again approaching the sweet edge of her release. She had to slow her movements in order to wait for him to reach that blessed edge right along with her.

Sandor finally managed to move his hips in time with hers, and Sansa then increased the motion as she gently lowered herself against his chest, managing to receive full friction on her nipples against him. She panted and gasped her pleasure as she whispered into Sandor's good ear. “There is no man but you, you and you alone, who could ever manage to bring me to all the seven heavens.”

Sandor suddenly hissed and groaned, and she felt him spill himself deep inside of her, his hard member pulsing hard, while he moaned her name. “Sansa, my little bird . . .”

After just a few more swift strokes of her hips, Sansa joined her husband in the seven heavens they had been talking about.


	19. Sandor 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While still in Gulltown, Sandor shows Sansa he's well enough to finally make the long trek to the Gates of the Moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire who always made this story better.

**CHAPTER 19: SANDOR 11**

After a few more days of rest, Sandor was finally strong enough to get out of bed and walk around the room a few times on his own. The limp wasn't as bad as it had been the first time his left thigh had been badly wounded, when he’d been brought to the Quiet Isle by the Elder Brother and that man had healed the terrible, rotting, smelly flesh wound as best he could. Back then learning how to walk again had been a slow, messy, and immensely painful process for Sandor and the Elder Brother. More painful than he cared to remember . . . but remember he did. He had fallen many times, ending up sprawled on the cold hard floor of his small cell and trying to get up despite his thigh hurting and burning like fuck. He would swear to all the seven hells and tell the Elder Brother to go bugger himself with his help and kindness.

Sandor remembered the nearly debilitating chills of the fevers that frequently overtook him while healing. He remembered his frustration and how he’d wept and begged for someone to end it for him and kill him now. But the Elder Brother had stood patiently by Sandor’s side, and helped him when he could.

One thing he could say for the Elder Brother was that the former knight must truly have healing powers. He had now saved Sandor’s life twice, and Sandor knew he owed the man. Perhaps, one day, he would be able to pay him back.

Sandor knew that Sansa wasn't fully convinced he was strong enough to undertake the long trip to the Gates of the Moon in the Vale, where he expected they would confront and kill Littlefinger, which was what he believed to ultimately be the little bird’s wish. In fact she had told him—in so many words—that she didn’t think him strong enough to act as her sworn shield just now. Not yet.

_Bugger that_. Sandor glowered at her for a moment from where he was sitting on the bed before telling her, “I'm stronger than you think I am, _my lady_ , and I can very well manage to protect my wife and kill Petyr Baelish on your orders—if that is what you want.” Thank you very much. “I may be more than twice your age, Sansa, but I’m stronger than most, as you clearly saw when I saved you from those would-be rapists in King’s Landing and then again on the Quiet Isle.”

His beautiful wife approached him and cupped his burnt cheek with light fingers. “Well, I am not so sure you are, Sandor . . . you are still limping, and I see you wince when you think I'm not looking at you,” Sansa told her husband defiantly, a smug expression on her small and lovely heart-shaped face.

Sansa’s hair had finally returned to that beautiful shade of red that Sandor loved so much, and a loose strand of it had fallen over her face. He reached his hand and brushed the silky smooth lock between rough fingertips before he tucked it behind his wife’s ear. Her luscious lips curled up in a soft smirk as she looked at him intently with her wonderful Tully-blue eyes. Gods! Sandor felt his cock jump in his breeches. _Damn woman, she gets me more aroused than a squire with his first whore! But I'll show her how strong I truly am._

He suddenly leapt up from the bed and wrapped Sansa in his strong arms, turning her around and pinning her against their bedroom door. Sandor pressed himself against her back so that her chest was flat against the oaken door, and he pinned her hips with his own, standing tall and strong behind her. Sansa let out a surprised gasp as Sandor slowly moved his hand up to bar the door.

“Not strong enough . . .” Sandor rasped slowly in her ear. “Not strong enough to do this?” he asked, trailing light kisses down the back of her neck as he ran his hand down the side of her body, stroking his fingertips over the side of her breast before pushing his hand between the door and her flat stomach. He grabbed at her skirts, lifting them and moving them aside so that he would have full access to her nub.

Sandor tucked his hand inside Sansa's smallclothes, his long warm fingers stroking the soft curls over her mound, which caused a soft noise to escape Sansa's lips. He began rubbing two calloused fingers rapidly up and down over her little bundle of flesh and nerves, making Sansa gasp and moan under his touch. Her hips jerked backwards so that her arse pressed fully against his groin, and he let out a strangled moan. Sansa turned her head just enough for him to see a small smile slowly play across her lips as she began to grind herself against his hardening cock. He groaned.

“You know what I mean,” she panted under the onslaught of his calloused fingers over that sensitive pearl of flesh between her legs. Her smallclothes were getting damp, clinging to Sandor's fingers as he performed his ministrations.

“No, I don't.” His free arm tugged at the laces on the back of her dress, loosening it so that he could slip his large hand down the front of her gown. Sandor gently cupped one firm teat for a moment before he began to caress them, passing his thumb over her hard nipples as he kissed, bit, and sucked the crook of her neck until he’d left a purple mark there. Bruising her, branding her as his. Sansa moaned loudly and her hips jerked back into him.

Sandor released her breasts and reached down to pull her skirts higher up over her hips before struggling to push her smallclothes down, exposing her perfect arse cheeks to his roving eyes. _Fuck_. Seeing Sansa with her smallclothes around her knees, her legs spread wide for him, was almost too much. And with the sweet curve of her back angled the way it was, he could see her pink wet cunt just waiting for him to enter her. _Seven bleeding hells._

“Raise your arse higher, towards me, Sansa,” Sandor groaned, caressing the side of her smooth thigh and causing her to whimper in need. His heart was pounding hard in his chest and he was breathing fast in his excitement. Sansa let her head fall back, and her hair tumbled in soft fiery curls down his chest and stomach. He fisted her hair near the base of her neck and gently pulled on it, twisting her head to the left, making Sansa's soft cheek press against the rough beard of his scarred one. Then he brought her mouth to his, kissing her softly at first, and then deepening the kiss until they were both moaning at the sensation of their tongues playing wetly against each other.

Sansa reached around with her hand and cupped the bulge at the front of his breeches, using her palm to slowly stroke his length before she began rubbing him intently. Sandor moaned throatily into her mouth and he felt her lips smile against his. _Gods she is so intoxicating!_ Sandor thought wildly.

Then he struggled to unlace his breeches, drawing out the moment before he reached in and released his fully erect cock, Sansa's hand still fumbling against him. He stroked himself a few times while she squeezed the base of his shaft. Sandor grunted in desire as he used his thumb to spread the wetness that was already leaking from the tip of his cockhead. He bent his knees slightly, steadying himself before he pressed his hard member against her wet entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock up and down against her opening, and Sansa whimpered at the sensation.

“So, you think I'm not strong enough to do this, Sansa?” he asked as he sheathed himself inside of her with one hard push of his hips. Sansa hissed at the sudden feeling of him entering her, but she was so wet that his cock slid in easily. He stood there for a few moments, his hands drawing circles over her sweet arse, then squeezing it lightly, molding her flesh with his fingers, before he started fucking into her in rough, deep thrusts, bringing his hips against hers sharply, his strong hands digging into her lean waist.

Sansa moaned again and raised herself even higher up, practically on the tips of her toes, so that his cock could enter her at a new angle and fill her up with its hard length. Sandor began panting behind Sansa, his cock sliding in and out of her with each slow upward thrust of his hips. He couldn’t help staring at his cock sliding in and out of her wetly.

She shifted a little and rolled her hips against Sandor. He could feel her legs quivering with the effort, and he started snapping his hips harder against her, snaking one hand up her back, between her shoulder blades. He pressed down until Sansa was bent over and he held her there while his left hand steadied his weight against the door. Sansa braced herself, both of her arms pushing against the door, changing her angle yet again so that he could bury his cock even deeper inside her.

She gasped at the new sensation, now that Sandor was fucking into her from a higher position. Sansa smacked her hips hard against his, over and over again, sending a wonderful shiver of bliss creep up his spine. Sandor could practically see stars behind his nearly closed eyelids.

“Tell me, Sansa, am I . . . am I fucking you hard enough?” he barely managed to ask in a gasp. “Do you want me to fuck you harder?” Gods, it was getting hard to think. “Or should I let you fuck me instead?” Sandor grunted, bending his body over hers so that he could fumble with her breasts again. He could hear Sansa's breath hitch higher at his words; she loved the dirty talk. She continued slamming her cunt down on his cock, which was slick with her wetness, taking him to a whole new level of ecstasy.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Take me . . . take me har- harder.” Sandor noticed how Sansa was the one pushing herself onto his cock over and over again, so he decided to stop moving and simply let his little bird fuck him; revelling over how much she wanted him; seeing how her skin was now covered with a fine sheen of sweat, how her silken red hair was becoming damp and in complete disarray and hearing her wanton moans of pleasure. It all conspired to drive him mad with desire.

Sandor let out a low growl, knowing that it was time to change the game, or he wouldn’t last much longer.

Letting his cock slide wetly out of Sansa—who let out a cry of protest—he turned her around and pressed her back against the door and finished loosening her dress until it fell from her shoulders and pooled on the floor around her feet. He kissed her again and again, biting down on her lower lip, sucking at her tongue. He felt her arms snake around his neck to bring him closer as she responded fiercely to his kiss, arching herself into him, pressing his painfully erect cock between their stomachs.

Sandor fumbled with Sansa’s shift, finally managing to pull it off with a grunt of impatience, then tearing at her soaked smallclothes as she squealed until she was divested of them as well. He threw off his tunic and dragged off his breeches, kicking them across the room, heaving and panting all the while. And then there they were, facing each other, both standing tall, naked, and aroused. _She’s more beautiful than the Maiden herself_ , Sandor thought as he drank in her wonderful lithe body.

He saw how Sansa also took him in, her gaze slowly caressing his strong, massive, scar-covered body as she worried at her lower lip, the gesture deeply arousing to him. He could feel pleasure pooling deep in his guts at the way her darkened blue eyes roamed over every single inch of his body.

He reached his hands up and cupped her breasts again, pushing them together. Sansa was looking at him with an expression of pure desire written plainly across her face, her white teeth bared like the she-wolf she was. Sandor released her teats and once again wrapped her in his strong, powerful arms, lifting her until she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her to the bed and set her on it almost roughly. Sansa was panting hard, her cheeks red, and Sandor's breath hitched when she spread her legs wide for him.

Sandor knelt carefully between her legs and brought them over his powerful shoulders. He wanted to taste her on his lips and mouth before fucking into her again. Using the flat of his tongue, he licked at her cunt relentlessly while she squirmed and moaned in pleasure beneath him, before he teased at her hardened little nub with the tip of his tongue. Lapping at her juices, he felt his hard cock throbbing in need.

Sansa’s hips were rolling up and down against his face in complete abandon, riding him hard. Her hands were pulling at his hair and her moans had become louder and Sandor knew it was time for him to finally fuck her hard and fast again. He wanted her to come undone while he was deep inside her.

Kissing her nub wetly, he raised his head up to look at her whilst he wiped the juices off his mouth with the back of his hand. She was looking back down at him, her chest rising up and down fast in her pleasure, her teats heaving, her nipples hard.

He raised slowly, being careful of his thigh, before he lowered himself on top of her, steadying his cock against her wet slit again.

“Fuck me, oh yes please, fuck me hard my Hound,” Sansa practically wailed, as he entered her once more. Her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist again, and she dug the heels of her feet into the small of his back as she rocked hard against his hips, entwining her fingers into his damp hair, the sounds of her pleasure driving Sandor mad with complete and utter arousal. “Oh, oh, oh, yes, oh, _yes!”_

Pounding relentlessly into his little bird while she moaned and he grunted with every deep hard thrust of his hips, Sandor gazed into her half-opened heavily lidded eyes and saw that her pupils were fully dilated in pleasure, her eyes almost looking a darker shade of blue. Her teats were bouncing madly in time with his bucking hips and her lips were opened in want, all pink and swollen. Sandor pressed his mouth to hers again, kissing her hard and deep this time, pushing his tongue into her mouth, licking her upper lip and sucking on her lower one, making Sansa moan loudly into their kiss and making him forget the pain that had started throbbing again in his left thigh as he fucked her hard and fast.

Sansa arched her back off the mattress, pushing her chest toward Sandor. “You want me to lick at your teats like the good dog I am, my wanton bird?” Sandor rasped huskily. Sansa’s only response was to moan again, obviously too aroused to correct him when he called himself a dog again, after all, she’d just called him her Hound in the throes of her own pleasure, so he obliged her, licking and sucking on each of her beautiful luscious breasts, letting his tongue roll pleasurably over each little hardened nipple, biting at them slightly, suckling at one and thumbing the other, the one that wasn't getting the attention of his hot mouth and tongue. Sansa let out tiny mewls of pleasure at the obviously pleasurable sensation.

“Oh, Gods, Sandor! Fuck, this feels so good!” she gasped against his hair, showering his scalp with open mouthed kisses, bringing her head up just enough to nuzzle at his good ear and bite down on it.

Sandor almost barked out a laugh at hearing such a proper little lady like Sansa Stark utter that word, even if _they were_ fucking like a pair of wild hares in heat right now. But then the sensation of her teeth nibbling at his good ear caused him to let out a strangled moan. Suddenly Sandor felt Sansa's hands scratch wildly at his back and shoulders, marking him with her sharp little nails. Her hands moved down over his arse, grabbing hold of it and pushing him into her even harder while she lifted her hips off the mattress in order to be closer to him, to melt into him, the sound of their wet naked skins slapping against each other and Sansa's screams of pleasure now loud in Sandor's ears.

Shit, he thought. He knew someone at the inn was bound to have heard them by now. No doubt Randa, who was staying in the room next door to theirs, could hear them loud and clear. Perhaps she was rubbing her own nub at the sound of them fucking? Sandor's excitement suddenly hitched higher at the unbidden thought.

As he was pounding into her relentlessly, encouraged by her moans of “more, harder,” Sandor suddenly realized that Sansa was approaching her release. Her inner muscles were tightening around him and her legs began to tremble as they slid down around his hips and rested at the back of his thighs. Her head jerked backward onto the pillows, her eyelids fluttering wildly.

Sandor’s hips were now rearing wildly into Sansa, his massive cock filling her up; sliding in and out of her so fast pleasure was prickling through him. “I’m going to come, “Sandor groaned desperately as he felt his balls tightening, his lips pressed against her long supple neck, his hot breath coming in short gasps.

“Me too,” she whimpered in an exhale. “I want to feel you come inside me, _please_ ,” she begged him.

_Oh fuck_. This was simply too god, too exciting. In a few more wild thrusts of his hips Sandor felt his cock and his balls tighten in molten ecstasy just before his climax hit him; one, two, three more hard thrusts and he pulsed hard inside Sansa, who was moaning his name like a litany. “Sandor, my Hound, Sandor!” He could feel her cunt squeeze and contract around him, bringing her over the edge, reaching her own peak just as he spilled his seed deep inside of her with a primal snarl of triumph. He kept moving erratically in and out of his little bird for a minute longer, his cock convulsing inside her, wanting to take everything she had left to give, riding the waves of the aftershocks of their pleasure as he kept on moaning with each thrust of his hips.

Then Sandor lay heavily on top of her, utterly spent, and Sansa’s hands moved away from his arse, stroking up his muscular back and entangling themselves in his damp ashen hair as his cock softened inside of her and his seed leaked out over the inside of her thighs.

Sansa, his love, who had moaned his name so prettily for him just now as she reached her peak just as she'd felt him reach his.

His heart was hammering in his chest, and when she came searching for his lips he once again covered her mouth with his. Sansa nibbled at the whiskers covering his upper lip, but he darted his tongue over hers playfully, deepening and slowing their kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he could feel that her heart was beating as wildly as his.

Sansa finally sighed into his mouth while her soft left leg rubbed up and down on his right one. “Yes,” she whispered, “my lord husband is strong enough to take us to the Vale.”

“Didn't I just tell you that?” he smiled smugly, as his wife playfully slapped him on his hip.

*****

The next morning, as they were gathering their things, readying themselves to depart on their long, arduous ride to the Vale, Sandor passed Myranda Royce in the second story hallway that led to their rooms. He had to choke back a laugh when he saw her blush a deep crimson; without a word, she rushed to her chambers, slamming her door shut behind her.


	20. Sansa 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa, Sandor and Randa finally make it to the Vale of Arryn and a showdown with a certain someone becomes inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful Beta girloficenfire who did such a magnificent job with the slightly messy first draft I sent her. She always made this story so much better and I am eternally grateful to her.
> 
> Well this is it. It’s the end for Because You Are I Long For. This last chapter has truly obsessed me the first time I wrote it way back when on LJ, trying to make it better. I ended up more than doubling the number of pages this chapter initially had after my wonderful Beta did her extraordinary job. I just hope I managed to do her justice by not screwing it up too much ;-)
> 
> I added things that weren't even there the first time I wrote it, while some scenes have become much, much longer. For example, Sansa’s confrontation with a certain someone that people have been waiting to read since the beginning of this story. I hope you guys will enjoy it!

**CHAPTER 20: SANSA 11**

After many days of hard riding through sleet and wet snow, having to avoid major roads and steer clear of the Mountain clans which was no easy feat in and of itself (Sansa kept thanking the old gods and the new for Sandor's prowess in tracking and his ability to keep them nearly invisible), Sansa, Sandor and Randa finally reached the Vale of Arryn and were approaching the Bloody Gate. Passing through it was, of course, the first step in getting to the Gates of the Moon.

Sansa hoped that the ravens Randa had sent to her father Lord Nestor Royce, the High Steward of the Vale and caretaker of the keep, had safely made it into his hands. Randa had sent one right before they left the Quiet Isle and a second from Gulltown, begging Lord Nestor to be ready to receive them and to side with the Lady Sansa Clegane, nee Stark. Sansa also prayed that Lord Nestor had contacted the Lords Declarant and asked for their support in the coup against Petyr Baelish. She knew that it would not be an easy task to convince them to support her against Littlefinger, since so many of them had been bought by that man. But she hoped that their sense of honor, and their duty to young Robert Arryn—the rightful Lord Protector of the Vale—as well as their general hatred and overall mistrust of her 'father', would prevail. And perhaps her status as rightful Queen in the North and heir to Winterfell would be enough to sway most of them, if not all, to their cause.

Her heart was in her throat and she could feel bile rising at the back of it. This was the moment when they would find out whether their plan was going to succeed or whether they had been betrayed.

Sandor sat astride Stranger, to her left, and Sansa turned her head to look at him, gazing directly at the right side of her husband's face; the burnt side. He wasn’t wearing his helm and the scars seemed more pronounced today, somehow; they looked redder than usual, Sansa thought. Perhaps he was as worried and tense as she was? After all, they were walking into the lion's den—or rather the mockingbird’s nest, so to speak. But Sandor’s face was calm and resolute, a complete blank mask, the face of a warrior who was used to dangerous situations.

As if he could sense his wife's gaze on him, Sandor turned his head slightly and met Sansa's eyes. He nodded to her and reached his right hand out to squeeze her left one reassuringly. Sansa gave him a tremulous smile. “It'll be alright little bird. It'll be alright.”

Somehow Sandor's words and the tone of his voice made Sansa feel that everything truly would be alright. She drew a deep breath as their horses carried them ever closer to their destination. They carefully made their way along the series of battlements that had been built along the mountain road leading into the Vale of Arryn, arriving at a narrow pass after passing two parapets built into the mountainside. The twin watchtowers loomed on either side of them, joined by a covered bridge of grey stone that arched above the road.

A draft of cold wind suddenly rushed through the narrow pass, causing Sansa to shiver and wrap her sable cloak close about her, as she waited for Ser Donnel Waynwood—the current Knight of the Gate—to appear and call out the age-old question: “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” She knew that her mother's uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, better known as the Blackfish, had once been the keeper of the Bloody Gate. But that had been when her mother Lady Catelyn had still been alive; before she had become the abomination called Lady Stoneheart.

Sansa tried to keep that information from her mind for now. It wouldn't do to start thinking on her undead mother and the Brotherhood Without Banners, who were tramping about the Riverlands and hanging both Freys and innocent people left and right. Sansa knew that she would likely have to deal with that situation eventually, if no one else took care of them first.

But for right now, all of her hopes were focused on Ser Donnel and whether or not the knight would take for her and her cousin Robert. He had always been nice enough to Alayne Stone, but could he be trusted to take part in Sansa's plan to restore the young Robert Arryn as the rightful Lord of the Vale? Sansa knew that she desperately needed Ser Donnel’s support if they were to make it to the Gates of the Moon.

She also knew that all hope was lost, should her cousin no longer be alive.

Then, off in the distance, Sansa saw a knight on horseback. He was making his way toward their small group, followed closely by a dozen or so men at arms all clad in heavy armor—and they were flying the banner of House Arryn, a white falcon and crescent moon on a sky-blue field.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. _This is it. This is the moment_. She was so nervous that she felt she would heave her morning's breakfast right there on the ground beside her mare, but she managed to calm the mad flutter in her stomach. She was tired of feeling ill; the mornings had been the worst, and she had barely managed to keep her food down these past few days. Most times she dreaded climbing back up onto her mare to continue their arduous trek to the Gates of the Moon. She knew that both Sandor and Randa had noticed how sick she'd been. Sandor had said nothing, though . . . likely because Sansa had refused to speak of it. _He must put it on the fact that I am nervous in regards to what we're about to undertake_. Though Randa kept quiet as well, she had gained a habit of watching Sansa with a queer look on her face . . .

Sandor once again placed one of his gloved hands over hers, giving it another gentle squeeze. She heard him mumble under his breath, “Stay calm, little bird, and stay close to me. Whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll never let them hurt you. No one will ever hurt you, or I’ll kill them.”

His words made her feel better, safer. He had always been there for her when it counted, had he not? He had protected her as best he could against Joffrey's wrath in King's Landing, had never beaten her, and had wanted to take her with him to her home in Winterfell. _“I'll keep you safe,”_ he had said then, and she knew he always would.

Sandor was guiding Stranger with one strong hand while Sansa had difficulty keeping her frisky and nervous mare in check. Beside them, Myranda Royce sat proud and calm on her chestnut mare. “I should ride to meet them, Sansa,” she said, turning her head towards her friend. “I am Lord Nestor's daughter, after all. They will listen to what I have to say.”

“It's a proper idea, Sansa,” Sandor said, looking intently at his nervous wife. Sansa nodded to Randa, who kicked her heels in her horse’s sides and made her way slowly toward the fast-approaching group of men.

Sansa saw Randa meet up with the knight, whom she had finally recognized as being Ser Donnel, and after some painful long minutes (which seemed like hours to Sansa), Randa made her way back to their side with a stoic Ser Donnel in tow. Randa had a huge grin on her face, which could only mean good news; that the knight was on their side.

Bowing as deeply as he could while on horseback, Ser Donnel simply said, “Welcome back to the Vale of Arryn, Lady Sansa. We welcome you at the Bloody Gate as the new and rightful Lord Protector of the Vale.”

*****

Their entrance at the Gates of the Moon was even easier than their arrival at the Bloody Gate had been. Lord Nestor Royce welcomed them with open arms, first hugging his daughter to him, then wrapping his arms around Sansa under Sandor's massive glare. For a moment Sansa feared Sandor's reaction, as she saw her husband's hand slowly closing over the pommel of his sword, but when she glared back at him he quickly relaxed his grip.

Then Lord Royce shared some rather startling news with them.

“As soon as he saw you arriving at the Bloody Gate, Ser Donnel sent a raven to say you were here. We promptly arrested Petyr Baelish and installed him in one of the keep's many dungeons,” he chuckled.

“That is good news,” Sansa replied, eyeing the massive bald man who was still sporting a greying beard. It seemed longer than last she saw him. “But I can scarcely believe that Littlefinger didn't see us coming; not with his network of birds and spies. He has eyes and ears everywhere. Somehow this doesn't feel quite . . . right, to me. My fa—” she started but Sansa quickly corrected herself. “Petyr Baelish is a very shrewd man; he should have known that something was amiss. The guards must have kept him apprised of what was happening at the Quiet Isle whilst I was there.”

“Perhaps I can answer for that. Littlefinger did receive one or two reports by raven from the Quiet Isle – reports that Alayne Stone had her maidenhood assessed, and that she was mostly keeping to herself while there.”

“That reeks of the Elder Brother,” Sandor said slowly. “He must have intercepted the guards’ messages and swapped them for his own.” Sandor's respect for the holy man grew even greater as he considered this.

“It is my fervent belief that Littlefinger saw you as being completely under his control, that you were nothing more than his obedient bastard daughter. He must have supposed that you were perhaps not worthy of greater supervision,” Lord Nestor added. “But believe me when I say that you should have seen the look on his face when we came to take him. He wasn't expecting you turning on him.”

“Knowing him, he must have welcomed you with open arms and smirked for all his worth,” was Sansa's icy reply.

“Something a little like that, my lady. Will you want to see him?”

Sansa paused for a moment, but finally said, “Yes I would, Lord Nestor. But first I would like to see Ser Lothor Brune and Mya, as well as Sers Byron, Morgath and Shadrich. Please, have them brought at once to the solar. Then I would like a bath to be brought up to our chambers.” She nodded towards Sandor. “I want to wash away the dirt of the long journey before I face Littlefinger. And then I would like to see my cousin, if he still lives. Does he . . . still live?” Her tone was almost pleading as she wished with all her heart that her Sweetrobin was indeed still alive.

“Aye, he still lives—but barely.” Lord Nestor’s face was grim, and Sansa suddenly realized how tired and old Randa’s father looked of a sudden. “Maester Colemon has started to wean him off the milk of the poppy and we hope that he will, in time, recover. But he still hasn't woken up yet. Not once since you left, Your Grace.”

Sansa simply replied, “Let us hope that he will, for all our sakes.”

*****

Sansa welcomed her friend Mya Stone into Petyr Baelish’s former solar—now hers—as well as her new husband Ser Lothor Brune. Behind them followed her ‘father’s’ three hedge knights Ser Byron, Ser Morgath and Ser Shadrich, all standing tall and silent and waiting . . . and reasonably nervous.

They were all observing her with curiosity plainly etched upon their faces but they were especially ogling Sandor, her husband and sworn shield. She felt him standing close behind her, his tall frame and massive body taut as a bowstring and at full attention, his eyes on her and on the five people who were waiting fretfully at the entrance of the solar.

“I’m here little bird, don’t be afraid, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he mumbled behind her, his voice barely a murmur, but Sansa heard him and it gave her courage.

At the back of the room, standing behind Sansa and Sandor, were four more knights from the Vale loyal to Lord Nestor, and thus to her. They were also standing as tall and still as sentinel trees, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords, their faces blank.

Sansa knew that Sandor was busy measuring Ser Lothor Brune silently, and that the former freerider and now landed knight was also doing the same with her husband. Sansa recalled how they had both been present at Joffrey’s nameday, when she had once saved Ser Dontos Hollard’s life—the poor fool—when Sandor had also saved her from a savage beating by lying to his king. _And Sandor hates liars_. She was still grateful for him . . . for _that_.

For a moment, she fleetingly wondered if Sandor and Ser Lothor Brune actually knew each other. By the way the both of them were sizing the other up, Sansa had a feeling that they did not. Why should they? Sandor had been part of Cersei and Joff’s entourage most of his life, and then he had become a Sworn Brother of Joff’s Kingsguard while Ser Lothor had been Petyr’s man. Mayhap their paths had crossed a few times back in King’s Landing, but she had a hard time imagining the both of them bonding over . . . well, anything except perhaps killind. _And whores_. The idea made her blush.

Both Ser Lothor and Sandor were almost of a height and size with each other. The two of them roughly the same age with the same skill sets, though Sansa knew Sandor was the strongest warrior of the two. The stocky and strong Ser Lothor, with his sqashed nose, squared jaw, and grey hair, was a little older than Sandor and offered a strong contrast to her husband who was leaner and more muscular under his armor.

Sansa had no trouble imagining that Sandor’s countenance was probably drawn into a disdainful snarl right now, while his hand no doubt rested at the ready on the hilt of his sword. After all, Ser Lothor Brune had been Petyr Baelish’s loyal man and she knew Sandor would not trust him in all the seven hells. Nor did he trust the three hedge knights standing silently at the back either. Sansa simply hoped that Sandor would restrain himself from any snide remark that could provoke them and keep his hot temper in check.

Then Sansa’s face lit up into a huge smile and she hugged a grinning Mya fiercely to her. The two friends stood together in a long embrace, the both of them shedding tears of happiness that were flowing freely from their eyes.

Sansa then took her friend at arm’s length and looked her up and down, her gaze lingering over Mya’s slightly round belly, the early stages of her pregnancy now showing plainly through the leather clothes she still favored. “You’re glowing,” she told Mya with a smile on her lips.

The tall, strapping young woman blushed, a nice pink color creeping into her cheeks, which in turn made her deep blue eyes shine in sudden mirth.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

“Please, Mya, just as I was simply Alayne to you, now I am and will always be Sansa.”

She felt Mya’s gaze linger on her red hair before she lowered it to Sansa’s breasts and then to her belly. “Sansa it is, then” she replied, smiling, her eyes still staring. Sansa wondered why Mya was looking so strangely at her tummy. Then Mya added, “and so are you, it would appear.”

Sansa felt herself blush. “I am just happy to see you. I, we, missed you, that is, Randa and I.”

“Talking of the Lady Myranda Royce, where is Randa?” Mya asked inquisitively, her brow cocked, her short dark hair in a bit of disarray. Sansa wondered what she had been doing before being brought here into the solar. One quick glance at Ser Lothor’s messily tucked-in tunic and Sansa found herself blushing again. They had obviously been enjoying each other’s company . . . much like she and Sandor enjoyed each other’s company. The thought made her womanhood suddenly start to ache.

She cleared her throat. “Randa is with her father but she said she would be joining us shortly. I believe she is currently recounting all that has transpired since we left for the Quiet Isle to Lord Nestor. Then I trust ravens will be sent to my great-uncle the Blackfish, to Ser Harrold Hardyng and Lady Waynwood, and to Lord Bronze Yohn at Runestone as well as to the other Lords Declarants.”

Then Sansa let her gaze fall to Ser Lothor who had remained silent and tall beside his wife the entire time, his gaze still locked onto Sandor’s.

“And you, Ser Lothor.” Sansa had just adopted what she hoped would be a queenly tone, trying to remember how her father had sounded when addressing the people of Winterfell, while she stood tall and proud near the long work table littered with parchments and opened books. _I need to show them that I am indeed my brother Robb’s heir. That I am Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North_.

Ser Lothor’s gaze shifted from Sandor to her and the knight bowed. “My lady Sansa, Your Grace.”

Sansa gave him her hand, which he took between large squat digits, brushing his lips over her warm long fingers, all the while hoping he wouldn’t notice that she was trembling. She felt Sandor tense behind her, could almost hear his leather and metal gloved hand closing in a tight grip over the pommel of his sword.

“I am yours to command,” Mya’s husband replied gruffly while raising himself to his full height again.

“You once were Petyr’s loyal man,” Sansa said, stating the fact simply. “You killed Ser Dontos Hollard on his orders. Why should I believe that your allegiance is to me now, ser?” Sansa demanded, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she waited for his response. She wanted, needed Ser Lothor Brune by her side. He was a strong man and, she also knew, a good man; just like Sandor. _Why else would Mya have fallen in love with the rough knight if he was not?_

“Yes I was, my lady. But my wife Mya is friend to you and she loves you dearly, Your Grace, and my loyalty goes where my heart is. You will find me to be a loyal servant to the new Lord Protectors of the Vale.” For a moment his gaze returned to Sandor as Ser Lothor put the emphasis on the word _protectors_ until it flickered back to Sansa. “And to the Queen in the North, Lady Sansa.”

Ser Lothor reached for his sword, making Sandor move swiftly with a roar between Sansa and the huge knight in front of her, his sword already drawn from its scabbard, ready to strike. She stopped him by laying a light hand on his arm, making him growl low in his throat in protest. “Sansa . . .” she heard him say.

“Wait,” she murmured to him. He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Ser Lothor Brune who hadn’t flinched. _He is a brave man_ , she thought. _Anyone else would have been afraid at the Hound lounging at them with his sword drawn but not him._

Then Ser Lothor bent the knee and presented his sword, balancing it on the tip of his outstretched arms and hands. “I pledge my fealty and my sword to you and your lord husband, Sandor Clegane, as Lord Protectors of the Vale, and to you, Sansa Stark, as the Queen in the North.” He bowed his head as he offered her his sword. She took it symbolically, her arms trembling, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

“Then I accept your fealty and your sword, Ser Lothor Brune. Rise now ser, please.” There she was again, chirping her courtesies. _Septa Mordane truly would have been proud_. Courtesy was a lady’s armor after all, was it not? Then Sansa felt herself relax a little when she heard Sandor slightly grunt in approval: One down and three more to go, Sansa thought.

Sansa gestured for Mya and Ser Lothor Brune to stand beside her, which they did promptly, Ser Lothor’s gaze returned to Sandor. Sansa sighed under her breath, _these two . . ._

Then she nodded in the direction of the three hedge knights.

Ser Byron, Ser Morgath and Ser Shadrich all advanced as one and stood before her. She felt Sandor tense again behind her.

Ser Byron first stepped forward. The young, comely and elegant hedge knight bowed low before Sansa, his thick blond hair falling in luscious curls as he bent down, making Sansa think about how comely that monster Joffrey had been, and how comely Harry the Heir was too.

“Do you pledge your fealty, Ser Byron? Will you offer me your sword and swear to be true to me and my husband as the Lord Protectors of the Vale, and to me as the Queen in the North?” she asked Ser Byron the Beautiful with a strong voice. _He really is beautiful_ , she found herself musing thoughtfully. _But beauty is nothing if one has a rotten heart._ She had learned that lesson a long time ago in King’s Landing.

Her thoughts turned to her husband Sandor, the former Lannister Hound, who had a face half-ruined by ugly burns. She thought of the way his deep brown eyes burned with a hunger for her, of his large and tall muscular frame, and the fine dark hair that covered his chest; hair she loved to entwine her fingers into. Her thoughts also turned, unbidden, to his large manhood that filled her up so completely she almost sobbed every time he entered her. The thought made her womanhood ache again as she thought about how Sandor liked to caress her skin with his large calloused hands that were made for sword fighting and for killing but also brought her so much pleasure; how he would kiss her deeply, how he would touch her everywhere, stroking the fire in her veins and Sansa found herself blushing furiously while she tried to compose herself and concentrate on what Ser Byron was telling her.

“I swear it, Lady Sansa. My sword is yours to wield. May your beauty and wisdom shine forth: the Queen in the North!” Ser Byron exclaimed fervently.

“You may rise,” Sansa replied, blushing at the hedge knight’s rather passionate show of fealty. _Still, I must be wary of him_.

Then Ser Morgath and Ser Shadrich all pledged their allegiance and their swords to her in turn to more shouts of “the Queen in the North!” But while Ser Morgath returned to stand beside Ser Byron, Ser Shadrich stayed before her and danced on his feet uneasily, clearly wanting to say something.

“What is it, Ser Shadrich?” Sansa asked, worry creeping into the back of her mind. She looked intently at the hedge knight standing before her, taking in how thin and short of stature he was, how his sharp nose and his orange hair (it truly is orange, Sansa thought while she tried to suppress the fit of giggles that unexpectedly threatened to overwhelm her) stood out. She glanced over the coat of arms emblazoned over his tunic: a large white mouse with red eyes on brown and blue. _He is called Shadrich of the Shady Glen, or the Mad Mouse_ , Sansa recalled. _I must be wary of him too_. She discretely swept her gaze over the three hedge knights. _Of all of them_.

“It is, ah, Your Grace must be told of this. A warrior-maid by the name of Brienne of Tarth has been looking for you and she came here while you, that is, when the Lady Alayne was gone to the Quiet Isle about a sennight ago. She was ushered into Lord Baelish’s solar before being turned away by him after a few days’ hospitality was offered her. She was also accompanied by a knight who had a hand made of gold instead of flesh and bone.”

“What knight with a hand made of gold?” She heard Sandor ask behind her, his voice raspy and curious.

Ser Shadrich seemed uncomfortable for a moment before replying. “It was the Kingslayer himself, Your Grace, Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Fuck me,” Sandor swore loudly while Sansa’s breath caught in her throat.

“Why were this . . . Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime looking for me?” Sansa feared she knew the answer to that: they were looking for her for ransom or to bring her back either to King’s Landing or to Casterly Rock as a prisoner for the blasted lions.

“Brienne of Tarth is no lady,” Ser Shadrich hurriedly said. “She is a . . . knight and was once of King Renly Baratheon’s Kingsguard before he was murdered and she pledged herself to your lady mother. I believe,” Ser Shadrich continued, “that Brienne the Beauty was looking for you on your mother’s orders, Lady Catelyn Stark . . . before she was murdered by the Freys alongside your brother and became the abomination called Lady Stoneheart.”

Sansa felt her heart clench painfully in her chest. _My mother had someone looking for me before she was killed and I did not know_. Sansa felt a wave of sorrow slowly engulf her and thought she would start to cry when she felt Sandor’s strong hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently, trying to reassure her.

Sansa turned round and looked into her husband’s face, his deep brown eyes filled with worry for her, the scars on his face still looking redder than usual. She wanted to kiss him right then and there, wanted to wrap her arms around his strong neck, wanted to melt into him. But there were other people in the room waiting patiently for her to regain her composure and say something. Anything. . .

Sansa looked at Ser Shadrich again, her eyes searching his carefully. “Thank you, Ser Shadrich. Did the Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime say where they were heading next?”

“No, your grace, I wasn’t privy to the conversation that took place in Lord Petyr’s . . . former solar.”

“Maybe they made their way back to Casterly Rock or to King’s Landing?” offered Mya, taking Sansa’s hand in hers and squeezing it reassuringly.

“No. They were looking for me because my mother asked for it.” Sansa’s thoughts roamed to happier times, to when her family had all been together alive and well at Winterfell, before King Robert Baratheon made his way up north and all but destroyed her family when he asked of her father that he become the King’s Hand, something Lord Eddard never wanted. Sansa remembered how her mother had loved to brush her hair every night until it shone, and how Sansa had talked about songs and princes and princesses while Arya had snorted at her, rolling her eyes heavily. _I was so shallow and stupid then; a stupid child with her head in the clouds full of songs and handsome princes._ But she wasn’t that shallow stupid child anymore, she was the Queen in the North and she knew how to play the game of thrones.

Sansa swallowed back the memories and pushed them aside. Then she looked thoughtfully at Ser Shadrich. “Tell me, ser. What kind of _woman- knight_ , this Lady Brienne is?”

*****

When the three hedge knights and Ser Lothor Brune, along with Sandor and the four faceless knights from the Vale left the solar, Sansa found herself alone with Mya and Randa who had finally joined them. The three friends hugged fiercely, laughing and crying while both Sansa and Randa recounted everything that had happened ever since they had left for the Quiet Isle to a rapt and attentive Mya.

This one eyed Sansa up and down again and her gaze rested once more on Sansa’s belly. “Tell me, Sansa,” she started slowly, as if she were thinking over her next words; choosing them carefully. “Did you take any moon tea ever since you started lying with Clegane?”

Sansa blushed. “No . . . I did not.”

Then Mya reached for Sansa’s breasts and squeezed one, making Sansa gasp in surprise. “Mya!”

Randa gaped at Mya and was going to admonish her friend when she suddenly decided not to. “She has a point,” Randa told Sansa.

“Do your breasts feel tender, sensitive and almost painful to the touch?” Mya then added, her eyes boring right through her. For a moment, Sansa could see King Robert Baratheon’s features reflected on his bastard daughter’s earnest face.

“She has been ill almost every morning for the past few days or so,” chimed in Randa.

“What are you telling me?” Sansa said, still blushing for all her worth as she looked at the both of them in turn. Her face suddenly felt hot and she was starting to get uncomfortable. What were Mya and Randa trying to tell her? Surely they didn’t mean . . . yet she had taken no moon tea. And Sandor had never even raised the topic. He had spilled his seed inside of her countless times already, almost every day since they had found each other again.

But Mya continued on, undeterred. “When was the last time you bled, Sansa?”

Sansa looked blankly at her friend for a moment. She was trying to count how many days it had been since her red flower had last bloomed, but she had never been very good at sums.

“I believe it was . . .” She started when she stopped. She was feeling the blood rushing in her ears, could feel her heart beating wildly in her chest. Her hands went to her belly to stroke herself there. Then she looked at both Mya and Randa in turn, eyes as wide as saucers, her lips opened in both surprise and complete disbelief. _Am I carrying Sandor’s child? Is it possible? So soon?_

Randa started to giggle. “Oh Sansa, I believe it is time you paid a visit to Maester Colemon”

*****

Sandor was already soaking up to his powerful chest in the steaming hot water when Sansa returned from her visit to Maester Colemon, too tired for words. He was lying back against the large copper tub with his eyes closed and his strong muscular arms resting comfortably on each side of the tub, his hair damp and the burns on the right side of his face still redder than usual. Sansa could see the steam from the hot water rising into the already warm room.

It had been Alayne’s room—Sansa hadn’t wanted to take the bedchamber that had belonged to her aunt Lysa and Petyr.

“You took your sweet time,” she heard him grumble almost sleepily, his eyes still closed.

“I wanted to . . . discuss my Sweetrobin’s health with Maester Colemon before I am to see my little cousin later. But now,” she sighed. “Now I just want to wash away the grime and dirt of our travels from my body before I confront Littlefinger.”

“Then why don’t you come join me, little bird?” He drawled.

Sansa smiled at him brightly and quickly rid herself of her dress, bodice, shift and smallclothes. Sandor had opened his eyes and was now looking at her hungrily as she made her way to the side of the bath, naked as her nameday. She felt herself blush pleasantly under Sandor’s lustful gaze.

He moved further against the back of the tub in order to let Sansa be able to step in and sit comfortably. Sinking into the hot, soothing, fragrant water she sighed almost contentedly while her legs entangled themselves with Sandor’s whilst being careful of his wound.

“Turn around little bird,” he rasped huskily. “Press your back against me.”

Sansa obeyed him and she turned around, laying back against his large warm chest while he wrapped his strong arms around her, tossing her long auburn hair over her right shoulder and baring her long neck to his lips, while her buttocks and her lower back pressed against his already engorged manhood, which in turn made her mewl in pleasure and anticipation.

Sandor chuckled as he showered her neck with warm open-mouthed kisses, making her whimper in need and tickling her with his rough beard and whiskers. Then he reached for the bar of soap and started washing her. The slickness of the soap making his usually rough hands glide smoothly all over her body. He took great care of washing her everywhere but his hands lingered on her breasts, soaping them thoroughly, molding them to his slick hands, his thumbs and forefingers pinching and thumbing the hard little peaks of her nipples lovingly, making her moan against him.

She reached her left arm to grab him behind his neck and turned her head to demand a kiss from him, which he obligingly gave her. She felt him part her lips with his tongue playfully and they kissed deeply for long minutes. Sansa’s womanhood started to throb pleasurably in want of him. It was a sweet ache that she now welcomed every time and she felt herself going wet and slick between her legs.

Then Sandor started moving his hips so he could get some friction over his hard manhood against her bottom, making him grunt in pleasure. Sansa moaned again at the sensation, revelling in the pleasure Sandor was getting from that simple gesture.

He reached his right arm over her stomach, stroking her belly absent-mindedly—which made her hold her breath for a fleeting moment—before going further down between her legs.

He still had the bar of soap in his hand and he started washing her womanhood, the soap sliding easily over her lady parts, actually creating a very pleasurable sensation over her nub. Sansa moaned again, opening her legs wide for him, and moved her hips encouragingly against Sandor’s hand and the bar of soap.

Her beloved non-ser chuckled again and kept on rubbing her with the soap and his slick fingers while his hips moved against her, water from the bath splashing over the sides and onto the flagstone floor but neither of them caring one whit.

They kept at it while Sansa felt her pleasure build inside of her, the pleasurable sensation coiling all over her womanhood from the hard little pearl of flesh over her folds to her legs and her tummy, reaching out like tendrils of liquid fire all over her body.

She started to moan loudly, gasping when Sandor dropped the bar of soap and started rubbing her between her legs hard and fast, slipping one large finger inside her, his hips still bucking wildly against her bottom.

Then he roughly lifted her on top of him, making her straddle his thighs while he pushed her down on him, opening her legs wide on each side while she now found herself on her knees. Steadying his hard manhood against her slick entrance, he sank her down onto his engorged member, making her hiss and moan in pure pleasure at the feeling of his stiff cock suddenly entering and filling her completely.

“My little bird,” he rasped against her ear, his breath hot, making her shudder blissfully. “Why do you keep sending me to all the seven heavens?” Sansa knew it was more a statement than a question. Then he started to fuck into her in slow, deep thrusts while his right hand went back to her nub, rubbing it, stroking it, making her whimper in need as he held her against him with his left arm in a tight, loving embrace.

She could hear Sandor grunting hard behind her, rocking her hips over his in a sharp back and forth, back and forth motion with one of his strong hands, making her go mad with pleasure and desire for more, for him.

“Sandor, my love,” she whimpered. “I’m nearing already . . . I want to come. It feels so good . . . you feel so good inside of me.” She could feel her breasts bobbing up and down and making the bath water splash against the sides of the tub wildly.

Sandor roared against her and he bit her again on the crook of her neck, sending a hot stab of pleasure coursing through her body while he sucked hard on her soft flesh.

He increased the tempo, his hips fucking into her in jerky motions, whilst his other hand still rubbed at her nub. Sansa’s head had fallen back against sandor’s strong, powerful shoulder, and his lips searched for hers hungrily, making him groan when her tongue licked over his lips before she darted it into his mouth, deepening the kiss.

Sansa’s right arm fumbled between her legs where she managed to reach his hard balls with her hand. She gently grabbed at them before starting to rub over them lightly, squeezing them gently, making him groan loud and clear behind her. Sansa smiled against his lips. She liked it when he reacted to her touch like that.

“Sansa, my little bird,” he now panted hard in her ear. “Now I’m the one nearing . . .”

She rubbed over him a little harder.

“Shit little bird, I’m going to release soon,” he groaned while his hips still bucked wildly into her, his cock hitting that wonderful spot inside of her again and again and again . . .

“Gods yes!” was the only thing she had time to moan when this incredible wave of pleasure crashed through her, making her sob so loudly Sansa feared she would be heard, the muscles in her womanhood clenching hard and fast around Sandor’s hard, engorged member.

“Oh fuck!” He groaned as he pushed into her roughly one last time, his cock now pulsing hard inside of her as Sansa’s body was convulsing over him in pleasure. It felt so wonderful, so right. Her pleasure blooming all over her body and she felt as if she was being carried on this wonderful unending wave of bliss that felt so good Sansa could feel tears welling into the corner of her eyes as she rode it with him, Sandor, the man she loved. From his hard breathing, and the way he groaned loudly in her ears, she knew he was riding that same wave hard, knew he was getting as much pleasure from this as she was.

They were both grinding their hips against each other, trying to draw out their pleasure before they slowly stilled together, their hearts beating wildly in their chests. Sandor’s arms were wrapped around her, holding her close to him while hers grabbed at him possessively.

They stayed like this a long time, holding on to each other tightly until the bath water started to cool down against their fevered skins.

Then Sansa started to giggle uncontrollably when she noticed half the bath water had splashed over the sides of the tub and had made a watery mess on the floor. While Sandor grunted again and nibbled at her ear lovingly.

*****

They finally brought a dirty and dishevelled Petyr Baelish to Sansa. He sat on a wooden chair, flanked by two blank-faced guards on each side. The usually well-groomed and well-dressed man looked almost a fright. His lip was cut and he had a gash on his forehead. No doubt someone had roughed him up. But who? There were quite a few people at the Gates of the Moon who must have hated Littlefinger and she knew no one would admit to it. Unless Petyr named his aggressors himself, something she was sure he wouldn’t be forthcoming with.

Sandor stood again behind Sansa, looking over her shoulder, years of guard duty making him as still as the statue of the Warrior himself—but his eyes were boring directly into Littlefinger’s, his hatred for the man quite clear.

“So here we are,” Littlefinger told Sansa, smirking at her. “The student surpassing the master, it would seem. You look even more like your mother, now that your hair is that beautiful shade of red again.” His eyes raked over Sansa’s hair and figure, then he gave her breasts an appreciative glance. “Yes, very much like her. I hear she's a vengeful, wrathful walking corpse now.”

Sansa shivered, both from the dirty look Littlefinger had just given her and from the simple truth he’d uttered.

Sandor noticed how Petyr had looked at her and he moved toward him, his hand closing on the hilt of his sword. “Give me one excuse, Littlefucker, and I'll silence that silver tongue of yours and close those fucking weasel eyes forever,” he snarled at him.

“No, Sandor, wait. Don't listen to him.” Sansa turned toward her husband, and her clear blue eyes stopped him dead in his tracks. Sandor grumbled in response, but backed off.

“Yes, Dog, you should obey your wife,” Petyr Baelish said, and when Sansa gave him a shocked look he continued, “Yes, Sansa, I already know about you marrying the younger Clegane sibling . . . quite an interesting political choice. Not one I would have made. You should have married Ser Harrold Hardyng like I arranged for you. Even that cripple, Willas Tyrell, would have been far more preferable than the dog you just married. At least you would have had the might of Highgarden behind you. Or perhaps you should have married into House Martell, I hear Quentyn is a decent lad, but not that handsome. Still, he would have been a good match for you. I fear you have forgotten all about endgames, sweetling.”

_He already knows that Sandor and I married_. Either someone around here has too big of a mouth, or he must still have people here who are loyal to him. _I will need to find them out. Still, it should not surprise me, the man is a master of whisperers._

Sansa composed herself into a steely resolve and looked Littlefinger squarely in the eyes.

“Do not worry about that, ‘father’. I haven't forgotten anything. I know that you were planning on killing Harry after we would have been wed. No, fear not, a raven sent to Lady Waynwood and Harry himself explains all. As for Willas Tyrell, I wouldn’t marry into that family of traitors and hypocrites even if my life and Winterfell depended on it. Or have you forgotten already that Margaery and her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, tried to frame me and my then-husband Tyrion for Joff’s murder? As for the Martells, well, I hear Quentyn is across the Narrow Sea and his younger brother Trystane is already for Myrcella. Nor would I have married _you_ either. Oh yes, I know about your intentions, ‘father.’ By marrying Sandor, I married a man of my own choosing. The man I truly love.”

Petyr chuckled. “The man you love? A man who is wanted for heinous crimes committed in Saltpans, a man who turned craven by abandoning his king and his fellow Brothers of the Kingsguard on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. A man with no political connection whatsoever. What can he bring you? Nothing. Look at him! He doesn’t look like the Knight of Flowers. Oh yes, Sansa, I know how you favored Ser Loras Tyrell, though his favors went . . . another way. A shame he is now even more scarred than the Hound is now, burned on most of his body, I hear.”

Petyr smiled at her but his eyes did not smile: they never smiled.

Sansa was sitting behind the desk that had once been his, and she leaned forward, bringing her face closer to Littlefinger’s. “You know nothing of me, Petyr. When you look at me, who do you see? My mother. But I am not my mother. Nor am I my aunt Lysa. I see right through you now, something they did not want to see or rather something they saw too late.”

“Clegane is a killer,” Petyr stated matter-of-factly. “That’s the man you chose, Sansa, a killer. No better than his brother Gregor.”

Sansa could feel Sandor simmering behind her. She fervently hoped he would keep himself in check.

“Sandor is a better man than you will ever be,” Sansa almost hissed at him, nearly losing her temper. “You may not wield a sword, Petyr, but your hands have more blood on them than Sandor.”

He laughed. “Is that so?” Then Petyr’s gaze went to the former Lannister Hound. “Have you heard the rumor?” He asked Sandor. “No, of course you haven’t. Living on the Quiet Isle must be so . . . quiet. You wouldn’t have heard the rumor ripe from King’s Landing.”

Sandor didn’t say a word. So Sansa asked for him suspiciously “What rumor?”

“There is a new member of the Kingsguard named Ser Robert Strong, Cersei’s own champion. A knight of the Faith, it is said.”

“What’s it to me,” Sandor rasped behind her.

Petyr smirked for all his worth at Sandor. “Apparently, Ser Robert Strong is actually your dead brother Gregor, brought back from the dead as a headless corpse by an ex-maester who now dabbles in magic called Qyburn. A former member of the Brave Companions,” he quipped.

Sansa felt Sandor tense behind her again. She turned her head and shot him a look that told him not to let Littlefinger rile him up.

Sandor only nodded at Sansa, his eyes still on the former Master of Coin, his hand clasping his sword’s hilt so hard she thought he would break it hadn’t it been forged of strong steel.

“Enough!” Sansa said. “Now, I have heard it say that Brienne of Tarth and the Kingslayer have been here to see you whilst I was away. That they were looking for me.”

“Have you now?”

“Yes, I have. I want to know where exactly you have sent them. I assume you have given them some misinformation as to my current whereabouts.”

“I may have done so, sweetling,” Petyr said, his shrewd eyes suddenly lighting up. “What will I get in return if I tell you?”

“I have been debating whether I should have you executed now, or whether I should grant you your life. Granted, it would be a life spent inside a deep, dark dungeon . . . unless I were to someday I change my mind about you.”

Despite everything, Sansa still felt something like thankful to Littlefinger for smuggling her out of the Lion's den in King's Landing. He had helped her escape right after Joffrey's murder, after all—a murder that the Tyrells had tried to pin on both her and her former husband, Tyrion—and he had taught his bastard daughter Alayne things she would never have learned as Sansa Stark. He had taught her about the game of thrones.

And he had saved her life a second time as well when her crazed aunt Lysa had tried to kill her by sending her through the Moon Door . . . but she also could not simply forget or forgive his schemes to marry her to Harrold Hardyng, to then kill that man just as he was trying to kill her young cousin Sweetrobin. And as for his physical assaults on her person—the fondling, the unwanted kissing, how he had made her sit on his lap and feel his erection . . . she could not forgive these things, either. Sansa shuddered.

Petyr seemed to be thinking things over and Sansa could almost see him try to scheme his way out of his predicament. Then he sighed almost imperceptibly. “I’ve told them that I had it heard it said you had sailed across the Narrow Sea to Penthos. I don’t think the Kingslayer believed me, I am sorry to say,” Petyr added with mock-pretend sadness, his head cocked slightly to the left. “Nor did that . . . woman, Brienne of Tarth. Poor Lord Selwyn, cursed with a daughter that looks and acts more the man than the daughter.”

Sansa stared at Petyr, her gaze boring into him. “So where did they go next? I know you, Petyr, you would have sent eyes watching over the Kingslayer and the Lady Brienne to make sure they stayed well away from the Vale.”

Petyr looked at Sansa thoughtfully for a few long minutes before he finally answered her. She knew he had probably been weighing his options as his eyes looked fleetingly over her shoulder at Sandor. “The last I heard, they were in Maidenpool on their way back to King’s Landing.”

Sansa looked at him silently, trying to see if he was lying to her. When she was satisfied he was probably telling her the truth she thanked him thinly.

“And what have you decided, Sansa?” Petyr looked almost smug when he asked this, despite the fact that he was her prisoner.

“I have decided to grant you your life . . . for now,” Sansa replied slowly. She heard Sandor’s surprised grunt from behind her—after all, he had expected her to ask him to execute Petyr Baelish then and there.

Sansa smiled, the corners of her full lips slowly moving upwards in a tight little curve. “Because,” she continued, “I intend to let my Sweetrobin decide if he wants to make you fly when he finally wakes up.”

*****

Sansa was sitting by the side of little Robert Arryn's bed, wiping his clammy brow and damp dark hair with a cool wet cloth. He was still in a deep sleep, tucked under many fur covers, and if Maester Colemon was to be believed he would probably be like this for many more days. But Sansa sincerely hoped that her small cousin would recover; and when he did, he would need her help, and the help of just, strong men around him, in order to become a good and just ruler himself. He would also need a brave, strong, and gentle man to be a father figure to him. Something she hoped Sandor would agree to be.

Sandor was once again standing guard behind his wife, completely silent, peering through the window at the vast mountainous expanse of the Vale and gazing upon the Giant's Lance with wide eyes. _Of course, he has never been here before_ , Sansa realized. She took in how massive he was, and her heart swelled at the sight of him standing there, so tall and strong. So many times she had thought of him, dreamed of him, fantasized about him, while she had been trapped here, playing a role and almost losing herself in it.

She rose from her cousin's sickbed and made her way to Sandor's side, wrapping her arms around his waist. She liked to breathe in the smell of him, which was so different from that time he had come to her that fateful night. Then, he had smelled of sweat and blood and gore and wine . . . but now the clean scent of soap clung to him; and Sansa blushed when she recalled the wonderful things they had done together whilst they had washed the dirt of their travels from each other’s bodies.

She clung to him now, trying to melt into him, her husband, the man she loved, the man she had chosen.

Sandor Clegane lowered his head and kissed the top of his wife's head, entwining strong, long fingers into her silken red hair, turning to wrap his strong arms about her, to embrace her protectively.

Sansa knew he was troubled by what Littlefinger had revealed about his undead brother and she waited for him to talk about it, not wanting to intrude on his private thoughts about the man he hated most on this Earth. But he didn’t. Clearly, he wasn’t ready to speak of it and Sansa did not push him.

“Once Sweetrobin is strong enough, I intend to make Lord Nestor Royce the temporary Lord Protector of the Vale,” Sansa murmured, raising her face toward his and demanding a kiss, which he promptly gave her, covering her mouth with his hungrily. When he finally released her, both of them gasping for breath, Sansa smiled against his lips. “He is a good man, and besides, the position should have been his a long time ago.”

Sandor put one big hand on Sansa's small shoulder and used the other to tip her chin up so that he could look directly into her eyes. “Why? You can do good here, if we stay. Winterfell is a ruin, and you'll need an army to retake and control the north.”

Sansa laughed. “Oh, I will retake Winterfell and the north, but I don't intend to leave the Vale just yet, my beloved non-ser; after all, we will need to wait here a while for our child to be born, and to grow strong like his father . . .” Her voice trailed off, her eyes cutting away shyly before she forced herself to look at him again, to gaze deeply into his shocked eyes.

Sandor lowered his head toward hers, searching her eyes intently, all the while not saying a single word. Waiting for her . . . as he'd done on the night he had waited for her in her bedchamber, during the Battle of the Blackwater. Sansa saw that he couldn't speak, saw a jumble of emotions playing across his scarred face. She took hold of the arm he had laid on her shoulder and brought it down below her stomach. His hand was so big that it covered most of her still-flat belly. “I have never been late with my moon blood before,” Sansa explained shyly. “Randa believes I should give birth before the seventh moon is up, and Maester Colemon agrees.”

She waited patiently for Sandor to say something, but the fiercest warrior she had ever known just stood there speechless, almost brought to his knees by the news she had just given him.

She might as well have punched him in the gut with a battering ram.

Sandor swallowed hard as the news slowly sunk in. Then his eyes got somewhat misty and he looked away, once more turning back to the view out the window. She saw his shoulders shaking, and Sansa knew then that her husband, her love, Sandor Clegane, was weeping. But then he raised his head high and turned back towards his wife, crushing her to him in a strong embrace that Sansa returned happily. Finally her fierce non-ser managed to say one thing, only one thing, with his lips pressed against his wife's auburn hair.

“Little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for sticking with this story and reading <3<3<3


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